


Walking Wounded

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4053583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hathaway — <b>James</b> — has been in an accident, and hurt badly enough that he’s admitted to hospital and can’t phone Robbie himself. And all he says is he’s sorry he won’t make it back to work on time.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [divingforstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divingforstones/gifts).



> A gift for Divingforstones to wish you a very happy birthday. It does feel somewhat not-good to offer you a story of which you've already seen and BRed the first chapter, but I hope you won't mind too much.

It’s just before nine as Robbie strides into his office at the nick, his gaze automatically going to the desk just inside the door. The still-empty desk. Right, James is still on holiday. Back the day after tomorrow, though.

It’s been a long week.

He turns at a tap on the door-frame. “Morning, sir. What would you like me to do today?”

Robbie just about manages to hold back a sigh. DS Barnes, the main reason it’s been a long week. A _very_ long week. “Have you finished going through the witness statements?”

“Not yet, sir.” Barnes’s relentless enthusiasm is as evident in his tone as in his smile. Robbie would give a lot to have been spared both.

“Then I suggest you continue with those. Report to me when you’ve finished.” He turns away, heading to his desk. Thank Christ Innocent didn’t insist on Barnes using Hathaway’s desk. 

He boots up his computer and scans his email, deleting the irrelevant, reading the significant, and leaving the rest for some indeterminate time when he’ll have the opportunity to get to it. Course, if James were here, he’d simply forward half the messages on for the bloke to deal with. But he’s not. Not until the day after tomorrow.

Thinking of Hathaway makes Robbie check his mobile. But no, no new texts. Ah well, maybe later. Hathaway’s on a touring holiday in the Czech Republic, sightseeing around Bohemia and Moravia, spending far too many hours in old cathedrals, no doubt. Robbie’s been encouraging him, by return texts, to visit a couple of vineyards and sample the nightlife once he gets to Prague – which should have been yesterday, actually. Ah, maybe the lad’s actually out properly enjoying himself, which he should be doing. Too busy to send his old governor a message, and that’s as it should be.

Time to check his voicemail. Two messages. The first’s from Forensics, letting him know that a report’s ready to be picked up. That’s one for Barnes, then. Robbie forwards the message. 

The second message is baffling at first. It’s a woman’s voice, heavily accented, and to begin with Robbie can’t make out anything she’s saying. It’s not until the word _Prague_ filters through his consciousness that he stills, and then quickly goes back to the beginning of the message.

Listening very carefully with the volume increased, he finally gets the gist of it. The woman’s a nurse at a hospital in Prague. She is calling at the request of James Hathaway, to pass on his apologies because he will not be back at work on the fifteenth as planned. He has been in an accident, unfortunately. But, the nurse assures Robbie, he will recover well and will be able to return home in due course.

Robbie slumps back in his chair, staring into space. Hathaway — _James_ — has been in an accident, and hurt badly enough that he’s admitted to hospital and can’t phone Robbie himself. And all he says is he’s sorry he won’t make it back to work on time. 

Bloody hell. How badly is the man hurt? And, Christ, if that’s the message he’s sent to Robbie, what’s he said to anyone else? Does he have friends — not family, Robbie’s certain — who’ll go out there to make sure he’s all right? See that he gets home safely?

How badly _is_ he hurt?

A few seconds’ searching on his computer gets him the phone number of the hospital where the message came from. But the nurse who phoned him is off-duty, and no-one else will give him any information since he’s not a relative of the person he’s calling about. They won’t even confirm that James is a patient there. Even Robbie telling them that he’s a copper makes no difference.

He hangs up and, instead, contacts the Prague police headquarters. Ten minutes later, after he finds someone who speaks English well enough to carry on a conversation, he has the information he needed. A British tourist, identified on arrival in hospital as James Hathaway, was travelling in a taxi yesterday afternoon which collided with a 4X4 after the latter vehicle ran red traffic lights. Mr Hathaway, he’s told, sustained several broken bones, including one leg, and is likely to be in hospital for a number of days. The police had been asked to help in tracking down any relatives for Mr Hathaway, and had intended to contact the British Embassy this morning for that very purpose.

“Can help you there,” Robbie says, keeping his voice very calm despite the worry he’s battling. “He’s got no immediate family. If there are relatives, they’re not close. I’m his governor — his boss,” he explains. “He’s an officer with Oxford Police.” Robbie provides his contact information, and takes the information of the duty officer he’s speaking to, then ends the call. 

His next stop is Innocent’s office.

Innocent’s first step, after expressing genuine dismay and seeking assurances about the extent of James’s injuries, is to check James’s personnel file. Contrary to regulations — which results in pursed lips from Innocent — James has no registered next of kin or emergency contact. “And you were aware that this was the case, Lewis?”

“Not aware, ma,am.” Robbie rubs his eyebrow. “Suspected — but only since the Crevecoeur case.” And that certainly hadn’t been the time to question James about whether or not he had any living relatives. “And, of course, he could have listed a friend.” Could have, but who? Not that James is likely to have mentioned friends to him, anyway, as private as the bloke is — but if he had friends, people he was close to, would he have been all... _existential flu_ , as he’d put it to Robbie, last month?

Innocent nods, the creases in her forehead deepening. “And are your plans what I suspect them to be?”

Robbie shrugs. “I do have some time in lieu.” 

To his surprise, Innocent seems relieved at that. She taps her fingers on her desk for a second or two, then turns to her computer and types for a moment. “You are now Sergeant Hathaway’s temporary emergency contact — and you can tell him from me that I expect him to provide a name himself as a matter of urgency. And as his named contact, you’re entitled to up a week’s leave in this situation. Now, you said you have a contact with the Prague police?”

Robbie provides the officer’s name. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate this.” 

“I hope Sergeant Hathaway appreciates it.” Her tone’s dry. “Now, is there anything on your desk that needs urgent attention?” Robbie assures her that he’ll make sure Barnes is fully briefed, and that in any case his current investigation is relatively lacking in urgency. 

“In that case, you’d best be off. Keep me updated, won’t you?” He nods immediately. Her concern, he well knows, is from both personal and professional perspectives; Innocent genuinely cares about her officers’ well-being.

And, with that, he’s free to go and make his travel arrangements.

* * *

Around mid-afternoon the following day, Robbie’s driving through the centre of Prague, using GPS to guide him to the hospital where James is a patient.

It had been early afternoon by the time he’d left Oxford the previous day, what with the information-gathering and preparation that needed to be done first. Innocent had contacted both the Prague police and General University Hospital to notify them of Robbie’s official status as James’s emergency contact, and to request assistance from the Czech police as needed. As a result, they’d received a full list of James’s injuries. The leg Robbie already knew about: broken a few inches above the ankle. Two fractured ribs. Concussion as a result of a head injury — hitting his head against the door-frame, apparently. Lots of bruising, including severe bruising to his left wrist and side. 

Robbie had taken the printed information straight to Laura, who’d scanned it and given him a run-down of the implications. “Ribs — typical seatbelt injury from this type of impact. They’ll be painful for a while and will restrict his movement, but then he won’t be moving much for a while. The pain and swelling from bruising may take a week or two to go away, and for a while it could almost be as painful as broken bones. Concussion — well, you know the risks from that. You’ll know in a day or two whether there’ll be any problems there. That aside, the biggest issue’s the leg. All the same, if he had to break a leg, this is almost the best type of fracture to have. I’d need to see the X-rays to be absolutely certain, but the description of a closed simple fracture of tib and fib suggests he should heal well. Anything more complicated could mean the end of his career in CID.”

“Christ,” Robbie’d muttered. That hadn’t occurred to him, but it should have.

Laura had rubbed his arm comfortingly. “Shouldn’t happen. Now, depending on whether they do surgery or just reduce the fracture and set the bones, he’ll either have a walking boot or a full-leg cast. Surgery can sometimes be the better option, but it depends on the person and the injury. Sometimes the recovery is faster from surgery, but there are always risks.” She’d smiled suddenly. “Whichever option they choose, you should warn James that smoking will delay and might even harm his recovery. It impacts the repair of soft tissue damage.”

Oh, great, Robbie’d thought. Bad enough that James would be in a lot of pain and, understandably, grumpy, as well as frustrated by his enforced inactivity. But if he’s told he can’t smoke as well... this is going to be a long, unhappy recovery period.

Laura had confirmed his intention to drive rather than fly; returning to the UK by plane once James is fit to travel might well be a lot quicker than this twenty-four-hour journey encompassing the Chunnel as well as an overnight hotel stay — Robbie had stopped for the night in Cologne — but would be supremely uncomfortable for James, regardless of whether he’s in a cast or a walking boot, and the broken ribs might even prevent him from flying anyway. At least driving they can take their time, and James can change the seat position, or even sit sideways on the back seat, to get more comfortable.

The journey hasn’t been too bad, really: straightforward motorways all the way through France, Belgium and Germany, and once he reached the Czech border there was even a motorway pass waiting for him — the police in Prague had warned him that he’d need one, and he’d anticipated a delay and hassle getting that organised, particularly as he speaks not a word of Czech.

Finally, he’s in the hospital car park and he can get out and stretch his tired limbs. Seven hours, it’s been, since he set off this morning. But he’s here now, at last, and ready to see just what sort of state his sergeant is in.

* * *

James is in a four-bedded room, with curtains drawn on three sides. When Robbie peers around the open curtain, the bloke’s got his eyes shut, so he can take a few moments to observe. James’s leg is elevated, and he’s got a long plaster cast on, with his knee bent upwards; oh, he must hate that. His face is pale and drawn, though one side of his jaw is shaded dark with bruising. 

Unsure whether he’s asleep or just resting, Robbie steps forward. “James?”

“Wha—” James’s eyes fly open. “ _Sir?_ ” He jolts in the bed, and immediately winces. 

“Steady, there.” Robbie comes closer. “You don’t want to do any more damage to yourself than that bloody bastard already did.” 

“But...” There’s confusion and disbelief on James’s face, and his voice is actually shaking. “How are you here?”

“How? Car, Chunnel and a fair bit of driving.” Robbie drops into the chair next to the bed, not because he really wants to sit, but because standing looking down at James probably isn’t the nicest thing to do, from the lad’s perspective. He’s reminded suddenly of another occasion when he stood next to James’s hospital bed, that time very much as the lad’s governor. 

James’s slight scowl at Robbie’s deliberate misunderstanding of his question makes him smile. “I’m here because...” He considers _You shouldn’t be alone_ , but dismisses it; James will assume that he’s motivated by pity. Instead, he finishes, “You’re hurt, so where else would I be?”

James’s eyes widen, and after a moment he looks away, flushing pink. Robbie won’t mention the sheen of moisture he spotted, but it reinforces his conviction that he’s done the right thing. 

“I... never expected... it’s far too much...” James still isn’t looking at him, and his hand clenches on the bedcover. Then he looks back at Robbie. “Thank you, sir.” He sounds choked up, overwhelmed.

Robbie shrugs. “Your replacement wasn’t much cop. Couldn’t wait until you’re able to get back home under your own steam.” Of course James will be well aware that’s not the real reason, or anything like it, but easier for both of them not to say it out loud, isn’t it?

“What, you’ve come to take me home?” Beneath the dry tone, the longing’s evident.

“Soon as you’re fit to travel. They seem to reckon four or five days might do it.” 

James groans. “I won’t be walking by then, will I?”

“Shouldn’t think so. You’ll be hopping along on crutches, or in a walking boot. Good thing the BMW’s a big car.”

“You brought your official car?” James stares.

“Innocent okayed it. Which reminds me—” He pulls a face. “I’m supposed to chastise you for failing to record an emergency contact on your personnel record.” James looks away again. “Consider yourself chastised, Sergeant,” Robbie adds dryly. “And, by the way, you do now.” He jerks a thumb at himself as James turns back to him. “Needed it to get information from this lot about you. Might as well leave it like that, unless there’s anyone you’d prefer to list?”

Silently, James shakes his head. 

“Well, then.” Robbie studies the lad. He’s in a lot of pain, that much is obvious — but of course he wouldn’t say anything if Robbie actually asked him. He is glad that Robbie’s here, but it’s clear that embarrassment and awkwardness about Robbie’s presence are starting to set in. Because he hates his boss knowing that he’s got no-one else to care about him? 

“Came straight here,” he says then. “Didn’t think about stopping to get anything — I dunno, fruit, chocolate, something to read. Is there anything you’d like? Anything you need?”

“Well... If you’re sure you don’t mind?” Bugger it, the lad’s looking uncomfortable. How long’s it been since someone did him a favour just to be nice?

“Offered, didn’t I?”

“Then... yes.” It’s then that Robbie notices James’s gaze is a bit unfocused. “My stuff’s all in my hotel room. I was supposed to be checking out today. I would have phoned them to explain, but I think my phone must have gone missing in the accident.”

Robbie nods. “I’ll sort the hotel. No problem. Need a hotel meself anyway, so I might as well just take your room. That way your stuff can just stay there till we leave. Anything you want here, though? That iPod thing, maybe? And I’ll talk to the police about your phone.”

“My iPod, yes. And my tablet. My glasses — apparently I can’t wear lenses at the moment. Not sure why.” James gives precise instructions as to where Robbie can find everything. 

“Sounds straightforward.” Robbie stands. “Might take a couple of hours to get everything sorted, but I’ll be back.”

He’s about to walk out when a low-voiced “Sir” makes him turn back. James briefly extends a hand towards him. “I still can’t believe you came all this way — thank you.”

The naked emotion as James speaks makes his heart ache. Christ, the lad must really be in a bad way to let him see it. But then he’s been in this bloody hospital bed, on his own in a strange country, for two days, with no-one he knows to talk to, no visitors. James Hathaway, the very opposite of gregarious... Robbie can only imagine how difficult it’s been.

He folds his fingers around James’s, squeezing lightly. “Got me away from another week of piddling investigations an’ cold cases, didn’t it?” He holds James’s gaze for a long moment. There’s no need to say any more. With a nod, he turns and leaves.

* * *

When he gets back a couple of hours later, James is sleeping. The painkillers, the nurse tells him in heavily-accented English. Robbie’s feeling a bit knackered himself — he’d been sorely tempted to have half an hour’s kip on the hotel bed, but he’d worried that he’d sleep longer than intended and then James would wonder where he was — so he eases himself into the chair again and lets his eyes drift closed.

“Sir.” Robbie mumbles something along the lines of ‘go away’. “Sir.” The voice is more insistent. 

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes. James is leaning up on one elbow, looking at him in concern. “Oh, you’re awake.” He rubs his eyes. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep, sorry.”

“No, no.” James shakes his head slightly, then winces. “You must be exhausted after driving all this way, sir. It’s just that... I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to sleep in that chair. Your back...”

“Right.” He stretches out his spine and rotates his shoulders. Yeah, he would’ve been sore if he’d stayed like that much longer. “How’re you feeling?” James just pulls a face. Robbie reaches down for the bag he’d brought back with him. “This might make you feel better.” He takes out James’s iPod and tablet and sets them on the bedside cabinet, and then adds his glasses to the collection.

James does look a bit happier. “Thank you, sir. I really do appreciate you bringing those.”

“Got some chocolate and fruit for you as well. Hope you’re allowed to have them.” Those go into the top shelf of the cabinet. 

James chews his lip. Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Come on, out with it, man.”

“You didn’t bring me cigarettes, by any chance, did you, sir?” There’s a hopeful, longing look in James’s eyes that Robbie finds he hates to disappoint. Which is not a reaction he’s used to experiencing where James is concerned — but then, it’s extremely rare that James reveals any kind of emotion, isn’t it?

But he shakes his head anyway, regret in his accompanying grimace. “Sorry. Even if you were able to get outside for a smoke, which I doubt they’d let you do, you shouldn’t. Laura tells me smoking damages the recovery process with a broken leg.”

James looks sceptical, and his lips curl downwards. “Convenient. I know she doesn’t like my smoking.”

Robbie decides to ignore James’s tone. The lad’s having a bloody awful time and he’s sure this won’t be the last time James lashes out at something. “Look it up on your tablet later.” He pulls a face. “Wouldn’t want to see you with a permanent limp, meself.”

That seems to shock James. He blinks, then looks down at his plastered leg. “No, I... erm, I wouldn’t either.”

Robbie reaches across and pats James’s uninjured hand. “Gonna be a difficult couple of months, I expect. Won’t be surprised if you’re a bit irritable once in a while.”

James smiles wryly. “I’d like to say I’m never irritable, but we both know that’s not true, sir.”

“Well, I’m a grumpy sod at least half the time, so you’ll be in good company.” He gives James what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Now, seeing as you’ll be sick of my company if I spend every waking hour in here, tell me what I should see while I’m in Prague, all right?”

* * *

When Robbie arrives in time for visiting the following morning, James isn’t in his bed. He looks around the room, but there’s no sign of the lad, or any staff member he could ask, assuming anyone speaks English. 

The man in the bed opposite says something, but in Czech. Robbie shakes his head. “Sorry. I only speak English.” Well, and a bit of German, but that’s not going to be useful here, even if it had been on his journey through Germany.

“Walk. Exercise,” the man says, the words heavily accented and awkward. 

Robbie nods. “Thank you.” Christ, that doesn’t sound like it’ll be fun for James, though he understands the need to prevent loss of muscle function and so forth. He takes a seat by James’s bed and waits. 

It’s only a couple of minutes later that he hears clunking, followed by muffled curses, and glances up just in time to see James, awkward on crutches and grimacing from the effort, making his way into the room. He notices Robbie a moment or two later, and just for a second there’s a flash of relief and delight in his eyes. 

He waits while the physio and a nurse help James back into bed and check his blood pressure and so on. Once they’ve gone, James flops back against the pillow. “Christ. If I could, I’d arrest that bloody physio for GBH.”

Robbie gives him a sympathetic smile. “You’ll thank him for it later. Broke me ankle once years ago. In those days, they made you stay off it for a week or more, an’ by the time I got back on my feet I almost had to learn to walk again.”

James winces and he’s clearly seeing his own treatment in a different light, as Robbie’d hoped. “Enough about me,” James says abruptly. “What did you do this morning, sir? I hope you’re getting a chance to see some of the city.”

“I am. Took your advice and had a wander around Old Town Square this morning. Made a note of a few places I want to go back to before afternoon visiting.” 

“You don’t need to—” James starts, then hesitates before beginning again. “I really appreciate you coming in to visit me, sir. But you don’t need to come three times a day. Please, spend the day sightseeing, and then if you can bear my company I’d appreciate it very much if you’d come this evening.”

Robbie gives him a long-suffering stare. “Oi. You’re the one who came to Prague to see the sights. That’s not why I’m here.” He leans back in his chair. “Now, tell me more about that train you fell asleep on near Karlov Vary...”

* * *

Robbie spends an hour or two walking around parts of Prague again the following morning, but this time he’s not sightseeing. He’s on the hunt for anything that might help to take James’s mind off things.

The lad’s suffering badly, nicotine-deprived on top of the pain of his injuries and the frustration of enforced inactivity. He’d got more and more intermittently silent and irritable yesterday evening, culminating in him snapping at Robbie several times and eventually telling him to leave him alone. Robbie’d left, feeling it was probably the lesser of two evils at the time. 

When he gets up to James’s ward, the bloke’s lying back listening to his iPod. It’s a moment or two before he realises he has a visitor, which allows Robbie a few seconds to study his sergeant. Even doing something which should be relaxing, James’s brow is furrowed and he’s paler than he should be. Not sleeping well, then, no doubt, on top of everything else.

James’s eyes open and he starts on seeing Robbie, but then there’s relief all over his face. What, had he imagined Robbie wouldn’t come back? Idiot.

“Brought you something,” Robbie says once he’s sitting and James is looking a bit more comfortable after he adjusted the lad’s pillows. He leans forward to place his purchases on James’s tray-table. “Mints, chewing gum, toffees, stuff like that. Thought maybe they might take your mind off not bein’ able to smoke.”

James’s eyes widen. “Thank you. I...” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry about yesterday, sir. I didn’t mean—”

“Ah, forget it, man.” Robbie waves a hand dismissively. “Not as if I’ve not seen you in the throes of withdrawal before. An’ you didn’t even choose it this time.”

“Mmm.” James’s lips turn down. “I was calculating this morning how long I’ll have to stay off them.”

“Must’ve been depressing for you,” Robbie comments; it’ll be a couple of months, he reckons, based on what Laura told him.

“Looking at it one way, yes. Or I could look at it positively and see it as way to give up properly.” James shrugs one shoulder. “By the time I’d be able to smoke again, I should have lost the craving, if I’m lucky.”

As long as he doesn’t cheat along the way, of course. 

Over the course of the day, in between James’s physiotherapy sessions and other times Robbie has to leave, he chats casually about home, bringing James up to date on events and gossip around the nick and in Oxford generally. Even if the lad isn’t showing a lot of interest, he knows James is listening and it’ll keep him from brooding, Robbie thinks. Help him to focus on getting better and getting back to work.

Except it doesn’t because, just as Robbie’s about to leave at the end of evening visiting, James says, “Will I even be able to go back to work?”

“What d’you mean? Course you can,” Robbie says immediately. 

“But what if... In some cases, a broken leg could lead to a permanent limp.” James seems to be studying the plaster on his leg, as if examining every inch of it could give him insights into the healing process.

Robbie nods. “Yours, though; it’s a simple fracture, isn’t it? Much less likely to lead to any permanent damage.”

“But still _possible_.” James’s gaze has shifted to his good leg. “And if that were to be the case...”

“You’d still have your job, man. Policies an’ procedures, not to mention employment law. They can’t just chuck you out. Have to find work you’re physically able to do.”

“Which wouldn’t include my current job.”

No; he’s right there. He’d fail the physical. “Shouldn’t be focusing on worst-case scenarios, James. Doesn’t do any good.”

James is now pretending interest in the contents of his iPod. “I need to be prepared — to find out what options I have if I can’t...” His voice becomes almost inaudible, but Robbie’s pretty sure he hears. “...be your sergeant any more.”

“Oi.” He reaches across and covers James’s hand with his own; it’s the best way of making sure the lad knows he means this. “You’re still me sergeant. That’s not gonna change if I have anything to do with it.” James finally meets his gaze, and his expression is sceptical. “Look, all you’re doing is borrowing trouble, but if it’s what you need to hear: in the very unlikely event that you are left with a limp, there’s still plenty you can do as me sergeant. Don’t keep you on just ‘cause you can run, y’know. An’ that’s what I’d tell Innocent too.” He squeezes James’s hand. “Now, stop this, all right?” 

He glances behind as a nurse coughs pointedly. “All right, I have to go. I don’t want you brooding over this all night, now, mind. Promise?”

After a moment, James nods. It’s not as much as Robbie’d hoped for, but it’ll do. With a quick farewell, he leaves before he gets thrown out.

* * *

James is right that a permanent limp or other weakness in his leg could be a problem — as Laura’d pointed out back in Oxford. But Robbie’s already made a point of reading the policies and, as he assured James, the bloke can’t just be pushed out, either altogether or into a job he absolutely doesn’t want to do. If the job of his bagman couldn’t be adjusted to fit whatever limitations James was left with, then he’d find another role in his team for the lad. End of story.

And, if James didn’t want that limited role, whatever it was, and actually resigned... it’s a shock, and yet it’s not, to realise that Robbie’s own decision would be to apply for early retirement. _If you go, I go..._ seems James isn’t the only one who feels that way.

Though now he’s letting the lad’s fears influence him. It’s not going to happen. He’s talked to Laura a couple of times, updating her on what he knows of James’s injuries and treatment, and she’s been very encouraging. According to her, though she insists he’s not to quote her since she hasn’t seen the X-rays or any other relevant information, as long as James behaves himself and follows medical advice he should recover fully.

Though there’s that _as long as_...

Well, that’s where he comes in, isn’t it? Support, encouragement, motivation — even bullying, if need be. James would expect no less.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh, look, double five.” Robbie’s grin feels like it’s spread from ear to ear. “That means I get to bear off four pieces from the five-point, or below if I have less than four—”

“ _Fewer_ ,” James murmurs. Robbie ignores him.

“And look! I only have four pieces left on the board, and they’re all on the five-point or lower, so I win!” He removes his pieces, then sits back and crosses his arms with a smirk.

“An excellent demonstration of backgammon, sir,” James comments dryly. “Can’t imagine why it’s not an Olympic sport.”

“Backgammon’s a highly respected game, I’ll have you know,” Robbie points out. “Been around more than five thousand years. 

“I am aware, sir. It’s recorded as having been played by the Byzantine Emperor Zeno in around 480,” James counters. After a perfectly-timed pause, he adds, “He lost.”

“Can’t have been any sort of decent player, then.” Robbie grins. “Let’s see if you can do better.”

James rolls his eyes as Robbie starts setting the pieces up again for a new game, but Robbie can see what’s behind the mock-protest. James is almost pathetically grateful for Robbie’s attempts to distract him from the pain, the ongoing restrictions on his daily activities — and the routine humiliation of requiring the assistance of others to perform many daily activities — not to mention nicotine withdrawal and sheer boredom. When talking became challenging, simply because neither of them are natural natterers, Robbie came up with the idea of trying some board-games — not entirely easy, since the hospital’s stock, as well as anything he could find in the shops, mainly consists of Czech-language games. There’s chess, but although Robbie can play, he finds it not worth the effort. Over the last couple of days, they’ve played most of the card-games both of them know, so Robbie suggested teaching James backgammon.

Robbie wins the second game as well, but he’s noticed that James’s attention was wandering over the last few moves. “Tired?” he asks as he tidies the pieces away.

James pulls a face. “Restless,” he admits. 

“Fancy a walk?” James now has a below-the-knee plaster, and Robbie was able to talk to the physio yesterday and negotiate permission to take James for occasional short walks, as long as he makes sure it’s over flat surfaces and that James doesn’t overdo it.

“I’d _love_ one.”

It takes a few minutes to ease James carefully off the bed, avoiding any jarring to his ribs and ensuring that he doesn’t put pressure on that still-painful left wrist. “You’re moving better,” Robbie comments once they’re out in the hallway and James is building up a half-decent pace using two crutches and bending the broken limb at the knee.

“Helps not having a massive cast all the way up my thigh.” Whether it’s the pain of getting up and moving around, or just general cabin fever, James is even grumpy about positive changes. 

“Will make it easier for you to get into me car tomorrow, all going well,” Robbie points out, hoping the reminder of James’s impending discharge will help. 

“Always supposing they don’t find another reason to make me stay longer.” That’s accompanied by a scowl.

By original projections, James should have been discharged today, but there’d been some swelling under his cast and as a result his blood pressure hadn’t been at a level his doctor was happy with, which had earned him another day’s stay. His reaction to the news had been predictable: about as bad as a convict learning that his parole request was denied.

Even with that complication, James is recovering well. The concussion symptoms cleared up within a couple of days of Robbie arriving, and the bruising around James’s ribs and side is gradually reducing. He’ll still feel considerable pain in those areas, as well as his wrist and forearm, for a couple of weeks yet, but his mobility is improving. And even despite the swelling, James’s leg is apparently healing well and no further concerns are anticipated. Despite James’s – and Robbie’s – initial fears, he should make a full recovery and return to normal duties once he’s declared fit.

And that’s been a relief. Not that James has said anything, though Robbie knows that the bloke is aware of his current prognosis. His surgeon briefed Robbie as well, as James’s official contact. The bones are knitting nicely and, all going well, a couple of months should see him walking, and even running, without a limp. He may always have some degree of weakness in that leg, but under normal circumstances that won’t be a problem. He’ll keep his career, and he’ll be back to playing squash and rowing and whatever else he likes to do before too long.

James pauses as they pass a doorway. It’s not a main exit, but leads to a small courtyard, with shrubs and a couple of smallish trees as well as grass, where patients who are mobile can stroll or sit. “Can we go outside?”

Robbie’s eyes narrow. “You’re not wanting to smoke, I hope?”

The glare James gives him is startling; they’ve had spats over the years, but he’s never seen the lad that riled, or heard him that sarcastic. “No! Even if I had any cigarettes, you’ve done an outstanding job as Dr Hobson’s proxy. I’m sure she’d be very proud of you, _sir_.” 

If it wasn’t for his leg, James would have stalked off in high dudgeon, but instead his only options are to hobble further on or try to turn around, which isn’t easy. Robbie elects to ignore the tirade he’s been treated to and just opens the door, holding it for James to make his slow, awkward way through. Outside, James says, stiffly though without sarcasm, “I’ve been cooped up inside for days without any natural light and surrounded by the smell of disinfectant and hospital food and overheated bodies. I just wanted some fresh air.”

“All right, canny lad.” Robbie’s tone is soothing, and he gestures towards a bench.

The courtyard is empty — not too surprising as it’s a cool afternoon, with a sharp nip in the breeze that’d make anyone regret coming out without a coat. The sky is cloudy and there’s not even a tiny corner of the small area illuminated by sun. James, however, sinks onto the bench with a sigh of relief, seeming as content as if he were on a sunny beach.

For several moments, he just sits with his head thrown back, inhaling and exhaling in deep, long breaths. Robbie can see James’s agitation calming gradually, just as it does when the bloke smokes a cigarette after a long day or a difficult situation. 

Finally, James glances in his direction, shame in the pinkness of his cheeks and the barely-visible frown of his eyebrows. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, sir.”

Robbie waves a hand. “Shouldn’t have assumed, should I? Anyway, you’ll be out of here tomorrow. Can keep the car window down the whole way home, if you want. Plenty of air for you, though I’m not sure I’d necessarily describe it as fresh.” He raises an eyebrow in enquiry. “Pick up any Czech while you’ve been here? Could come in handy. I’ve had to point and signal if I’ve wanted to eat while I’ve been here.”

“ _Koláč a pinta, prosím_ ,” James says, eyes closed. “Pie and a pint — I assume that should satisfy your discerning tastes, sir?”

“Sod,” Robbie responds cheerfully. “You’re in charge of meals, then. At least until we’re over the border into Germany.”

James stiffens suddenly. “You must add up everything I owe you, sir. Travel, accommodation, food, everything. I’ll pay you back as soon as we get to Oxford.”

“Don’t be daft.” He keeps any heat from his voice, despite the instinctive offence he can’t help feeling at James’s words. “Look,” he adds, seeing the stubborn set of James’s jaw, “wait and see what the insurance company will cover, all right? They should cover repatriation at least, so I can give you petrol and ferry receipts if so.” He couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about the money, but if it’ll salvage a little of James’s pride, then so be it.

James nods at that, somewhat distractedly as his attention’s caught by something a few feet away. A small green bird with a red head is clinging to the side of a tree, pecking away at the bark with its beak. 

“European green woodpecker,” James comments, taking it for granted that Robbie’s also seen the bird. “They’re found in England as well, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen one at this close quarters.”

“Seen plenty of them in the Cotswolds.” Robbie sits back, arms folded, and enjoys the surprised look that dawns on James’s face. “Used to take the kids rambling in the hills on Sunday afternoons if I wasn’t working. Learnt a lot about birds — enough to get the better of Morse a couple of times.”

“I would’ve liked to see that.” James sounds wistful. It’s something Robbie would have enjoyed witnessing as well; he’s thought a few times over the years that he’d love to be a fly on the wall for a conversation between James and Morse. His old governor would have either loved or loathed James; admired his brain, certainly, but hated his spirituality and his rigid sense of ethics — not to mention his attachment to modern technology. 

“Oh, it was interesting,” Robbie says with a grin. “He didn’t like it.”

Another nod from James, his gaze still fixed on the woodpecker. His fingers are twitching where they rest on his lap — of course, he’d normally have a cigarette in his hand by this point. The cravings must be tough on him, too. 

At that thought, Robbie remembers that he’s got a packet of mints in his pocket, and passes it over. It’s not nicotine, of course, and it’s not the same as having something in your hand, but so far sweets of various kinds seem to be helping James. At least, he hasn’t said otherwise.

James nods his thanks and scoops a mint into his mouth, then turns to Robbie with a contrite expression. “I shouldn’t have spoken that way about Dr Hobson either. It’s very kind of her to have given you advice for me.”

“I won’t tell her if you don’t.” Robbie nudges the bloke gently. 

James gives an exaggerated shudder. “Not bloody likely. Though I do mean it — it was kind of her.”

“Yeah.” Robbie nudges James’s shoulder. “And speaking of, she gave me a bit of advice this morning, too. Make sure you get plenty of rest before stuffing yourself, broken leg an’ all, into a car for more than eight hundred and fifty miles. It’s not gonna be easy for you.”

“Nor you.” James glances in his direction, expression rueful. “I can’t even offer to share the driving.”

“Well, you could, but we’d probably end up in a ditch.” Robbie bumps the lad’s shoulder again, giving James an amused grin. “Come on, Limping Lenny. Let’s get you back to bed before they send out a search-party, eh?”

James reaches for his crutch and pulls himself slowly to his feet, smirking through the obvious pain it causes him. “Thought you’d never ask, sir.”

* * *

It’s a long and torturous drive home for James. Even with the passenger seat pushed fully back, he’s clearly uncomfortable. It’s not just his leg; the seatbelt’s cutting across those broken ribs, and the bruises he still has get jarred every time Robbie turns a corner or hits a bump in the road. Even before they’ve left Prague, Robbie knows he’s going to have his work cut out to make this journey bearable for the bloke.

Regular stops, he resolves. Even if James doesn’t get out of the car, he’ll have a break from being bounced around. 

“Roads’ll improve once we’re over the border into Germany,” he comments as he pulls into a service station with the excuse of needing coffee and a pee. James definitely needs the coffee, Robbie knows, and is hoping the shop here has something strong enough for his silently unhappy passenger.

“Thank fuck for that,” James mutters. “Sorry,” he adds almost immediately. “That sounds incredibly ungrateful, and I really am so very grateful for what you’re doing, sir. If you hadn’t come, they said I’d’ve had to wait another forty-eight hours before being cleared to fly.” Because of the risk of further swelling, of course. And even then, getting to and from airports on his own would have been tricky — not that Robbie would have left him to make his own way back from Heathrow in any case. 

Robbie waves a hand as he slides out of the driver’s seat. “You’re in pain and getting knocked around all the time. Anyone’d be grumpy if they had to suffer that. Even me.” He catches a rueful half-smile from James. “Mind, flying would’ve got you home a lot faster. One day, instead of three.”

“Still better this way.” James tilts his head back against the headrest as Robbie closes the door.

Less than ten minutes later, he exits the shop to see James has got out of the car. He’s leaning against the passenger door, looking off into the distance. Robbie follows the direction of his gaze. Two men are standing near the edge of the station area, smoking.

“Getting a vicarious fix?” Robbie suggests as he approaches.

James swings around, clear longing on his face. “I was so close to hobbling over there and cadging a smoke. Or even getting close enough to smell the tobacco.”

“Here.” Robbie holds out his prize: freshly-brewed coffee so strong the spoon’d almost stand up in it. “It’s not nicotine, but it’s practically a narcotic.”

“I could kiss you, sir.” James reaches for the coffee with as much gratitude as a desert survivor being offered water.

“Least you wouldn’t smell like an ashtray,” Robbie comments with a smirk. “Come on, give me that while you get back into the car. You can have it back soon as you’re in.”

“Promise?” James means it humorously, Robbie knows, but he doesn’t quite get it right, and the resulting vulnerability in the lad’s voice almost breaks Robbie’s heart.

Outwardly, he ignores what he’s heard, even though he wants nothing more than to give James a hug — and that’s not an urge he’s ever felt before. “Come on, soft lad. Let’s get you home.”

* * *

It’s still going to be a couple of days before he can deliver on that promise to have James home, though. He did the outward journey in under two days, of course, but he achieved that by driving up to eight hours each day, not including time spent waiting at Dover for the ferry. James won’t be able to manage that. Robbie’s already planning two overnight stops, in Mannheim and Calais, which reduces driving to between five and six hours per day.

Because Robbie’s stopped every ninety minutes or so to give James a break from being jolted and a chance to unfold himself from the passenger seat, it’s early evening before they arrive in Mannheim. James found a hotel via some app thing on his phone, which he insists is far superior to Robbie’s usual strategy of Googling for something that’s at least close to his route. 

One room, two beds, Robbie’d told James. Not because it’s cheaper, but because he’d rather be on hand in case James needs help with something. Knowing James’s propensity to claim that he’s okay when he isn’t, there’s every chance that the bloke would end up falling over getting out of the shower and not even shout for help.

“There’s one thing I thought you’d be excited about now you’re out of hospital,” Robbie says as he drives into the hotel car park.

“Several, I’m sure.” James’s tone is dry. “Not least of which is missing the daily physio sessions.”

“You’re not stopping the physio just because Boris isn’t around to whip you into shape. Soon as we’re up in that room, you’re doing your twenty stretches or whatever,” Robbie points out, sharpish-like. 

“As I keep telling you, his name’s Boleslav, not Boris.” 

“Close enough, an’ he’s not here to correct me anyway. Not what I meant. Would’ve thought you’d be desperate for a decent dinner instead of hospital food.”

James pouts, but it’s for effect, Robbie can see. “We’re in Germany. Bratwurst and sauerkraut have never been high on my list of delicacies to eat before I die.”

“And Mannheim’s a cosmopolitan city. Steaks, pizza, pasta, fine French dining; you name it, you’ll find it on that phone of yours.”

“Steak,” James announces instantly. “Big, juicy steak with chips and veg, with a bottle of a decent red. Which means not German.”

“Oi. No wine for you. You’re still taking painkillers.”

“I can dream.” James points out a parking space, and then they’re ready to check in.

* * *

“I ate too much.” But James is smiling as he lies propped up against the pillows on one of the room’s two double beds. “And even worse, it reminded me of all the food I’ve been missing. The first thing I’m doing when we’re back in Oxford is ordering an Indian takeaway. Or Chinese. Or maybe even both.”

“You’ll need to share, in that case,” Robbie points out. “Good thing I like both too.”

“I can’t think of anyone I’d prefer to share a curry with, sir.” James turns his head towards Robbie, and there it is: a genuine, _happy_ Hathaway smile. After the last few days, it warms Robbie’s heart to see it.

“Glad to hear it.” Robbie can’t stop the gruffness creeping into his tone, but James’ll know he doesn’t mean it unkindly.

“I know I’ve said it before, sir.” Now James is sounding awkward again. What on earth—? “I have no idea why you’ve done all this for me, including putting up with my absolutely appalling moods, for which I apologise again. I can’t possibly thank you enough. I hope you know how much I appreciate it, and if there’s ever anything I—“

“Stop it.” Robbie cuts across him. ”You’ve already thanked me several times. That’s enough.” After a moment, he adds, “As for why — why not?” _It’s not as if there was anyone else_ , he could add, but won’t. The last thing he wants James assuming is that Robbie felt sorry for him.

But isn’t that exactly the reason he came? And yet... no. He doesn’t feel sorry for James. Sympathy, yes, at the thought of the bloke injured and alone so far from home. But he came for himself, really, didn’t he? Not for James, though of course James needed him and in the circumstances there was nowhere else he’d be. But because he needed to be here for his own peace of mind: to be reassured that James was getting the best of care, that he wasn’t alone and brooding, and so that Robbie could keep an eye on him until he’s safely back in Oxford, where he should be and where Robbie can keep an eye on him daily.

And with that, he picks up the TV remote and tries to find something on telly that’s even halfway watchable, because the realisation that James’s well-being, and his own involvement in James’s well-being, matters _that_ much to him is something he’s not really ready to contemplate. And certainly not with the man himself in the next bed.

“Oh, brilliant. Bayern München’s playing Real Madrid.” Satisfied, he puts down the remote and settles in for an hour or so’s viewing pleasure, and deliberately ignores the groan from a few feet away. Given Robbie’s driven halfway across mainland Europe and now back again for James, the bloke can bloody well put up with a football match.

* * *

“We should be back in Oxford some time tomorrow afternoon, depending on traffic, ma’am,” Robbie’s saying the next morning when the bathroom door opens and James emerges. He left the bloke to look after himself after seeing when he’d got washed himself that the shower is a cubicle with well-positioned bars and only a very shallow lip, and they’d got hold of a couple of plastic bags for James’s cast.

“Glad to hear it. How’s our injured sergeant?”

“Hopalong Cassidy, you mean, ma’am?” Robbie turns to grin at James, but pauses once he gets a proper look at the bloke. James is naked except for his cast, of course, and a towel around his waist. The entire left side of his body is black and blue. “Christ, that looks painful, man!”

“Robbie?” There’s sharp concern in Innocent’s voice.

“Sorry, ma’am.” James is shaking his head wildly, eyes practically imploring. Robbie gives him a long-suffering glare. “Nasty bruise on James’s arm. It’s got to the really colourful stage.” Seeing a way to extract a bit of minor revenge for James demanding that he lie to Innocent, Robbie adds, “Probably could send you a photo if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary, Inspector.” He can hear the frown in her voice, and Robbie grins. “Just bring both of you back without any further injury. Understood?”

“Understood, ma’am.” He ends the call, then sets the phone down and studies James again. “They give you anything for those bruises? Arnica or anything like that?”

James shakes his head, sitting down on the edge of his bed, half-turned towards Robbie but with his right, unbruised side in Robbie’s line of sight. “It’s not a problem.” 

“Yeah, right. And you weren’t getting banged around all over the place in the car.” Robbie picks up the phone again, this time selecting Laura’s number. He’s been giving her updates every couple of days, as with Innocent.

James frowns, clearly suspicious. Robbie hits the speaker mode, and Laura’s voice answering the call is loud and clear. “Robbie! Any news? He must have been discharged by now, surely?” The concern in her voice is apparent, and James notes it too; he looks slightly ashamed of himself. No doubt remembering again his bad-tempered comment in the hospital garden.

“Discharged and on our way home. We’re in Germany, and I’ve got James on speaker with me.” Knowing Laura, she’ll have questions, and this way’s faster than Robbie relaying questions and answers.

While Laura asks and James replies, Robbie finds himself watching his sergeant. Now that his focus isn’t on James’s bruises but on the lad’s uninjured right side, his eye is caught by James’s forearm and chest. He’d known James was fit and strong; he’d watched the bloke bear the weight of a man heavier than himself with just one arm, after all, and pull him to safety. He’d known James used to be a competitive rower, and still rows casually. But he’d never seen the taut, powerful muscles that normally stay hidden underneath the tight clothing James usually wears... 

“Robbie?” It’s Laura, and by her tone it’s not the first time she’s said his name.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“He is telling the truth, isn’t he?” 

About what? Robbie’s missed it all. He glances at James’s face, and unsurprisingly the cocky sod nods emphatically. He takes a chance. “He’s recovering well, and not doing anything he shouldn’t. But I was gonna ask you — is there anything you can recommend for bruises? They didn’t give him anything, and he’s in pain.”

James glowers. Robbie just stares back until the lad gives a reluctant nod of acknowledgement.

“I don’t know German brand names, and I’m not sure you’d recognise active ingredients, though you might be fortunate enough to find a pharmacist who speaks English,” Laura answers. “But, if you can find it, witch hazel’s the best option. Liquid, or gel if it’s available.”

“Fair enough. Thanks, Laura.”

“Thank you, Dr Hobson,” James adds quickly, and his tone is sincere. But then, James does genuinely like Laura. He just hates being fussed over or told what’s good for him. “And thank you for all the advice you gave Inspector Lewis. I do appreciate it.”

Robbie ends the call. “Right, I’m off out to find a pharmacy. Don’t put your shirt on before I’m back.”

“Hang on.” James has his own phone in his hand. In under a minute, he’s reading out directions to the closest pharmacy, and — in poorly-pronounced German — telling Robbie what witch hazel is called here. 

“Zaubernuss.” Robbie corrects him with a superior smirk, and heads out.

* * *

A day and a half later, Robbie takes the Oxford exit off the M40. There’s an audible sigh of relief from the passenger seat.

“Not long now, canny lad.” Robbie starts calculating the best route to James’s flat, but then it occurs to him that the bloke won’t have any shopping in. And anyway, how’s he going to look after himself properly with a leg in a cast and all those bruises? Robbie’s had to help James into his shirts the last two mornings, after he saw the lad wincing in pain as he tried to bend his left arm back to get it into the sleeve. James has mostly been applying the witch-hazel gel himself, but Robbie’s had to rub it on parts of James’s shoulder and side the lad couldn’t reach without pain.

There’s only one thing for it. Good job he moved to the bigger flat after Jack was born, so that he’d have the spare bedroom for Lyn visiting.

“Anything you want to get from yours? No arguments,” he adds quickly as James opens his mouth. “You’ll stay at mine for a few days, at least until those bruises start to go.”

“Sir, I couldn’t possibly impose—”

“I said no arguing.” Robbie slows down for traffic lights. “Now, anything you need first?”

“Work clothes.” James holds up a hand as Robbie’s about to protest this time. “I know my leg prevents me from resuming full duties immediately, but there’s nothing wrong with my brain. I’ll be returning to work tomorrow, sir. I hope you’ll be willing to drive me, but if not I’ll take taxis.”

“Course I’ll drive you, you daft sod.” Robbie shakes his head. “Stubborn as a mule, you are.”

James smirks in a way that Robbie _knows_ means there’s smartarsery coming. “I learned from the best, sir.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

The following morning, the spare bedroom door is still closed by the time Robbie’s up and dressed for work. 

He puts the kettle on, then goes to see if his guest is awake. Sleep would be by far the best thing for James, but his stubborn sergeant had insisted in no uncertain terms before bed last night that he would be going to work today. Robbie wouldn’t put it past the bloke to make his own way in, broken leg or no broken leg, if Robbie left without him. 

His knock is greeted with a sleepy, incoherent response. Robbie takes that as permission to enter. James, hair rumpled and shadows under his eyes, is clearly just waking up. “Morning.” Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Sleep well?”

James rubs his eyes. “Yes, actually.” He yawns widely. “Lot better than since the accident.” He shifts in the bed, then winces. “Bloody ribs.” 

“You’re overdue painkillers,” Robbie points out. 

James nods, then closes his eyes abruptly. “Head still hurts.”

“Ah.” Robbie knows better than to dole out advice. James is the sort who needs to realise the best course of action for himself. “Bring you some water, then, will I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, heading back out to the kitchen.

By the time he gets back, James is propped up against the pillows, looking very young and miserable — not quite as bad as when Robbie first got to the hospital in Prague, but he is reminded of yesterday, when he’d finally got the bloke into his flat.

James had limped his way into the living room on both crutches, and then stopped dead, seemingly unable to go any further. Robbie’d called his name a couple of times, but James hadn’t responded, so he’d gone over to the lad and laid a hand on his shoulder. James had turned slowly to look at him, and the only word Robbie can use to describe the expression he’d seen on his sergeant’s face is _lost_. The lad had just seemed to crumple, overwhelmed.

Being home — well, not quite, but close — is part of it, of course. There must have been times when James had felt as if he was never going to get out of hospital, or out of the Czech Republic. But the other thing that’d occurred to Robbie as they’d been driving back through Europe was that James had been injured while in a car. He’d been perfectly safe, or so he’d assumed, when the other driver had come out of nowhere. And then he hadn’t been in a car again until Robbie picked him up from the hospital to begin the long journey back to Oxford. James hadn’t said a word, but Robbie’s certain that at least some of the lad’s tension over the three-day journey has to have been trauma-related — fear that the same thing could happen again.

Now, he’s finally out of a moving vehicle and in a safe environment, isn’t he? So he’s letting go of the tension, whether or not he realises it.

Robbie’d done what had seemed instinctive: he’d wrapped his arms around James and given the bloke a hug. Careful, of course, because of James’s poor ribs and all those bruises, but a hug nonetheless. It had taken a moment, it seemed, for James to react, but then he’d made an unintelligible sound and hugged Robbie in return, dropping his head to Robbie’s shoulder and letting his crutches fall to the floor.

The hug had lasted all of about ten seconds before James had pulled away, muttered what sounded like an apology, and picked up his duffel-bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and then his crutches, using the kitchen counter for balance.. He’d then stayed in Robbie’s spare room a good ten minutes, emerging finally with a bland expression and unstoppable line in equally bland conversation, only dropping the performance when he’d realised that Robbie wasn’t going to bring up what had happened.

Robbie’d deliberately kept things low-key for the rest of the evening. He’d ordered curry and put on a DVD, a documentary series James had given him last Christmas, meaning that conversation could be kept to a minimum. Then he’d pleaded tiredness — not faked; driving well over eight hundred miles in three days had taken it out of him — and they’d both been in bed before ten.

He’d slept well and woken refreshed, but James looks like he could do with another few hours in bed, or at least resting on the couch. 

“Coffee’ll be ready in a couple of minutes,” he says as he hands James the water and then shakes out the painkillers for him. “Want me to bring you a cup?”

“I should be—” James yawns again.

Robbie perches on the side of the bed. “Nothin’ you have to be doing, man. No skin off my nose if you want to stay an’ watch daytime telly all day.”

James looks pained. “Just kill me now, sir. I’m sure you could find somewhere safe to dispose of my body.” 

“Too late now to dump you in the Chunnel,” Robbie points out with a cheerful grin. 

James flexes his left hand; clearly, the wrist is still painful. “I think I should stay here today, sir, if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t be much use to you in the nick, and it would be crass of me to make you feel you need to make sure I don’t overdo it.”

“Abandoning me to yet more of Barnes, are you? I swear, that man’s far too cheerful to be a human being, let alone a copper.” Robbie snorts. “Have to find somewhere to send him that’ll take most of the day.”

“I’m sure you could invent a need for him to visit the county records office in Northampton,” James suggests. “You’re good at coming up with wild goose chases, sir.”

“Oi.”

“Who’s Barnes’s usual governor, anyway?” James asks. “You reckon it’s Peterson? It should be. Might explain the heartiness.”

“If it’s not, it should be. Might have to suggest that partnership to Innocent.” Robbie stands. “Bring you coffee before I go. Want anything to eat?”

Abruptly, the amused look disappears from James’s face, to be replaced by a guilty frown. “No. No, please don’t bother, sir. I’ve been enough trouble as it is. I can fend for myself.”

Robbie sighs. “You’re no trouble at all, man. Told you that.”

James’s lips twist. “How can you say that, sir, after everything you’ve had to do for me? And even now you’re finally back from Europe, you’re having to cope with me in your flat.”

Sitting on the bed again, Robbie snorts. “And you’re such a difficult, demanding guest. Look,” he adds, tone matter-of-fact; James won’t respond well to sympathy. “It’s no trouble having you here — and you were right earlier: I’d prefer to have you where I can keep an eye on you an’ make sure you’re not doing too much. As for coming to get you: yeah, I didn’t have to do that. Wanted to. Wanted to see for myself that you weren’t in too much of a bad way. And if you really are too thick to work out why, though it should be bloody obvious: you’re a mate, and friends do things like that for each other.”

He stands and walks to the door, making clear that James doesn’t have to respond. “Be back with breakfast for you before I go. An’ make sure you keep your phone close at hand so you can call me if you need anything.”

* * *

“A minute, Robbie?”

Robbie pauses on his way to his office, following Innocent to hers instead. “Of course, ma’am.” 

“How is James? On the mend, I hope?”

“Still on crutches and in a cast. He’ll have a check-up in a week or so, but it’ll be a while yet before he’s into a walking boot, from what I understand. It’ll be desk duties for him for at least a month once he’s back.”

“And he’ll love that.” Innocent’s tone is as dry as he’s ever heard it. “How is he otherwise?”

“Tired today. The journey back wasn’t easy on him. But don’t be surprised if he comes into work tomorrow. To quote him, _there’s nothing wrong with my brain_.”

Innocent sighs. “On safety grounds alone, I should veto that. What he might do in the privacy of his own home is up to him, but if he has an accident here, or overdoes things before he’s cleared by a doctor, then we are liable. It isn’t just his leg in a cast, after all, is it? Broken ribs as well.”

Robbie pulls a face. “To be honest, I’d prefer to have him where I can keep an eye on him. I’ll take full responsibility, ma’am. And anyway,” he adds, “as long as he stays at his desk it won’t be a problem. He’s over the concussion and the bruising’s starting to fade, and he’s coping well with the rest.”

Innocent makes a note on the pad in front of her. “Make sure he sees the station medic as soon as he comes in tomorrow. Or — I assume you’re driving him for now?” Robbie nods. “Take him straight there when you get in. And make clear that if the doctor has any hesitation, he’s not staying. And, of course, nothing beyond desk duties until he passes the fitness exam.”

Robbie nods agreement, and tries not to imagine the conversation should James not be declared fit to work. His bagman might have been exhausted enough today for even him to see that he’s better off staying at home, but where James is concerned that sort of situation is rarer than Hooper solving a major crime.

He returns to his office, where Barnes — as relentlessly enthusiastic and talkative as before — lies in wait for him, determined to bring him up to date on events during his absence. He buys himself some time by insisting that he needs to catch up on important email first, and is then utterly delighted to discover that DI Peterson’s current investigation has had a major breakthrough and he needs additional officers to assist with house-to-house and to comb through information received. It’s an easy decision: he immediately replies to offer the services of Barnes and a couple of DCs, and then dispatches Barnes to round up the constables. 

Barnes and Peterson. He’s going to enjoy telling James about this tonight.

* * *

Robbie’s working his way through the abundance of reports that have accumulated in his absence when a shadow falls across his doorway. “I see you managed to persuade the Boy Wonder to stay at home.”

He gives Laura a rueful smile. “All his decision. He woke up knackered and in pain, an’ just didn’t have the energy to move.”

She strolls into the office to lean against the filing cabinet. “Hardly surprising. It won’t be that easy again, though. Knowing James, he’ll be trying to run before he can walk — literally.”

“Yeah.” Robbie sighs, then stands. “Can I inveigle you out for lunch?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Laura falls into step with him as they make their way out of the nick to walk to a cafe they’re both fond of. “I was hoping to talk to you alone,” she says once they’re away from the station premises. “If I know James, he’s not going to want to feel that he’s being fussed over. But you don’t recover from a broken leg as easily as a sprained ankle, and that’s without even considering his ribs.”

“I know.” Robbie nods. “I’ve already told him he needs to see a doctor here, find out what follow-up treatment he needs. He’s all on board with continuing the exercises his physio gave him, but there’s got to be more than that.”

Laura nods. “He’ll need to take his discharge documents to his GP, who’ll refer him to a fracture clinic for follow-up. He’ll need check-ups and physiotherapy every few weeks until the cast comes off. And then after that—” She pulls a face.

“What?” Robbie’s got a sinking feeling.

“Well, a lot of people assume that once the cast comes off their troubles are over and everything’s back to normal, but it’s not. Even if they’ve been doing the physiotherapy and keeping their muscles active, the leg’s still going to be weak, and walking on it’ll be painful for some time. Walking normally isn’t easy, and if he’s not careful he could end up with a permanent limp if he favours that leg too much. He’ll need a lot of support and nagging to do what he needs to do. And the physio intensifies once the cast’s gone — and he’ll need someone to help him with the exercises at home as well.” She glances at Robbie. “I’m guessing there’s no-one else to do that?”

Robbie shakes his head. “I don’t mind helping, though I dunno how he’ll feel about his boss bullying him through that sort of stuff.”

Laura nods again. “It’ll hurt. Though I suppose James is used to forcing himself through pain — he was a rower, after all.”

“And he’s got motivation. He wants to be able to pass the fitness exam. Innocent won’t let him near active duty until he does.”

“Mmm. Still, it won’t be easy for either of you. It’ll take a lot of patience, and probably a lot of arguments. If I know James, he’s going to hate the fact that he needs help. That young man is far too stubborn for his own good.” She grins suddenly. “Rather like someone else I could mention.”

“Oi.” Robbie nudges her with his elbow. “Any more o’ that and you’ll be buying your own lunch.”

Her smile’s the ultimate in mischievous. “You’re such a gentleman, Robbie Lewis. I’ll have the smoked salmon ciabatta.”

Chuckling, he leaves her to get a table while he places their order.

* * *

The first thing Robbie notices when he opens his front door that evening is the delicious smell of cooking food. It’s all he can do not to march in and tear several strips off James. The bloke should be resting and avoiding putting pressure on his cast, not to mention the risks he’s taken working in the kitchen alone. What if he’d fallen? 

“Don’t tell me you went out to Sainsbury’s!” There are indeed Sainsbury’s bags on the kitchen counter, and dishes stacked by the sink waiting to be washed. 

James, wearing loose tracksuit bottoms and balancing on just one crutch so that he has his other arm free, pauses in the act of wiping down the countertop. “Actually, I didn’t. I could have got there by taxi, but I didn’t fancy the prospect of being run into by the army of OAPs who shop there on Tuesday afternoons.” He gestures to his phone, lying next to the plastic bags. “There’s an app, sir.”

“An app?” Bloody hell, how is it that James invariably makes him feel like an idiot in just a few words?

“For ordering online. Naturally, I’d prefer to choose fresh fruit and veg in person, but in the circumstances...” James shrugs. “They didn’t do too bad a job. Hope you like shepherd’s pie, sir?”

Robbie sighs, deciding to give up chastising his sergeant as a bad job. James clearly hasn’t come to any harm in the kitchen, and it spares them both yet another takeaway order. Besides, if he’s honest, he’d hate being inactive every bit as much.

The pie is excellent. Robbie informs James that, so long as he doesn’t injure himself, he’s in charge of cooking as long as he stays at the flat. Conversation over dinner’s nice, too; James is highly amused at Barnes being loaned to Peterson. “Hope they become inseparable,” he comments dryly. “He’s not getting _my_ governor.”

Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think that’s your decision, sergeant. Mind,” he adds with a grin, “I’m okay with the bagman I’ve got. Mostly. At least you’re not far too cheerful first thing in the morning.”

“I shall endeavour forthwith and hereafter to match, if not exceed, you in grumpiness each morning, sir.” James smirks.

After dinner’s nice, too, relaxing on the couch with a bottle of Bridge each as they watch Channel Four news. James says he hasn’t needed painkillers today, though Robbie privately thinks he should still be taking them. But, as the programme ends, Robbie knows he has to bring up the stuff James won’t want to talk about. “So, Innocent says you can return to work tomorrow as long as you see the station medic as soon as you get in.”

“Waste of time, but whatever.” James’s expression makes clear that he believes Robbie agrees with him.

“There are liability issues,” Robbie points out. “I do see her point.” James huffs. “But that’s not all. You need to see your GP, don’t you? For a referral to the fracture clinic? You make an appointment in the morning, and I’ll drive you if I’m free.”

James’s hands curl into fists. He makes a sound that could be agreement, but could equally be _Sod off_. “Anything else?” he enquires, an undertone to his voice that Robbie recognises only too well and that hints strongly that the answer better be _no_.

Robbie shrugs casually. “Do your exercises today? Thought you might like help, if not.”

James is silent for — Robbie counts — almost twenty seconds. Then he twists his body abruptly to reach for his crutches. “If it’ll stop you nagging, _sir_ , I will be delighted to accept your assistance.”

* * *

Half an hour or so later, the air is blue with curses. It’s been painful for James, but also frustrating because he wants to do more than he’s capable of, and Robbie’s having to be forceful in preventing him. A few loops up and down the hallway on the crutches isn’t too bad; James is used to this now, though he wants to do more than the Czech physio recommended. Getting up and down from a seated position is painful, and as he watches Robbie chastises himself for leaving before James was out of bed this morning. Leg raises while sitting are the worst, and that’s when James really does start cursing.

“ _Don’t_ fucking tell me to try harder, _sir_. You have no fucking idea how hard I’m sodding already trying. _Fucking bastard_ leg...”

This goes on for several minutes, with each _sir_ louder and more vehement, and Robbie has to turn his face aside so James can’t see his expression. Not that he’s angry — far from it. It’s actually too bloody funny to see his normally respectful and proper sergeant letting loose like this. He’s even tempted to comment on the lack of variety in James’s vocabulary. It wouldn’t be kind, considering what the bloke’s going through, and certainly wouldn’t be well-received.

Once he has his expression under control, he gives James a sardonic look. “If you’re going to keep cursing at me, call me Robbie. Bad enough you callin’ me sir when you’re being mean, as it is.” He smirks, making sure that James sees it and knows he’s pulling the lad’s leg.

James huffs. “ _Robbie_. This _fucking_ hurts and it’s going to fucking hurt regardless of what I call you.”

“No, it won’t, ‘cause you’ve done enough for one day.” Robbie supports James’s cast as he lowers his leg to the floor. “Cuppa?”

James grunts something, which Robbie takes as assent, and he heads to the kitchen. Better to leave the lad in peace for a bit, give him privacy to recover his composure. When he returns close to ten minutes later with two mugs of tea, he also puts James’s painkillers on the end table alongside the bloke’s mug, all within easy reach, and clicks the remote to turn the telly back on. There’s an episode of QI, which removes the need to talk, so James doesn’t need to pretend to be sociable. Just as well for him if he doesn’t; Robbie can see the purplish shadows under his eyes and the exhaustion he’s trying to hide along with the pain. Pain not just from his leg, of course; those exercises had to have been rough on his still-healing ribs as well. It’s noticeable, too, that James doesn’t even try to engage with the programme by answering questions and criticising the contestants; he’s simply slumped back against the cushions, eyes half-lidded as he pretends to watch.

Once the closing credits roll, Robbie nudges him gently. “Off to bed with you.”

James doesn’t even attempt to put up an argument. He shifts forward awkwardly and tries to reach for his crutches, so Robbie forestalls him and picks them up, then without fuss takes James’s arm to balance him as he gets up. He gets a weary-sounding “Thanks” as James then swings out of the living-room and on his way to bed.

A little later, once he’s heard James get into bed, he taps lightly on the door. “Need anything?”

“Would you please come in, sir?” James calls in return. 

When he enters, the lad’s lying in bed looking distinctly uncomfortable, one arm feeling around far underneath the covers for something. Robbie frowns in concern. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing.” James shakes his head, clearly putting on an act of nonchalance. “Just a bit of leg-cramp. It’ll go away. I wanted to apologise, sir—”

“Which leg?” Robbie advances to the bed. “Used to be a dab hand helping Val with cramps when she was pregnant.”

“The right one. Calf.” Now James just sounds miserable. And, of course, it won’t be just the cramping that’s causing the misery. Any jolt to that leg is probably making his other leg jerk and shift, which will be bloody painful.

James brings his hand back out from under the covers and slumps back against the pillow. Robbie’s about to take that as implied permission to intervene, but stops himself just in time. James isn’t Val. He’s not only an adult male who’s normally a very private person and someone who hates fuss, but he’s also Robbie’s subordinate. Yes, Robbie’s been helping him already, including with getting dressed when they were travelling, but this is a bit more intimate still. Possibly inappropriate even with explicit permission, and definitely so without.

“Would you like me to...?”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind, sir — please.”

Robbie jabs his thumb into his chest. “Robbie. Sir at work.” James frowns at this; whether he’s got some sort of idiotic notion about it being disrespectful, or whether he really feels more comfortable with the formality — especially living in his boss’s home — Robbie can’t tell. “Look, you’re gonna be living here for at least a month, probably more. Don’t fancy being sirred nigh-on twenty-four hours a day.”

“I can’t possibly—” James shakes his head. “I couldn’t inconvenience you for that long. Once I’m more used to getting around, I can go home.”

“Don’t be daft.” Robbie perches on the side of the bed. “Think I wouldn’t be worryin’ about you if you were home on your own with those things?” He nods at the crutches. “You’ll stay here where I can keep an eye on you an’ be certain you’re all right. Now, mind if I pull back the covers?”

Once he’s pulled the duvet back far enough, Robbie’s careful to avoid looking at anything other than the stretch of calf that James indicates is causing him pain. The least he can do is preserve the lad’s dignity — and that includes not looking at James’s face. This isn’t all that different from sorting out Val’s cramps, except that she wasn’t wearing a ruddy great plaster cast. “This helping?” he asks after he’s built up a rhythm, keeping his movements careful to avoid jolting James’s left leg.

“Yes. Sir. Robbie.” Now the lad’s sounding awkward again. What now? He grunts in assent. “I was unbelievably rude and ungrateful earlier. I should never have spoken to you like that, especially not _shouting_. I am very sorry—”

“No need.” Robbie cuts across him, keeping his tone completely matter-of-fact. “Reckon I’d be yelling and cursing as well if I was in as much pain an’ being forced to do things that make it worse. Bloody torture, those exercises.”

“ _Yes_.” The emotion behind that single word is heartfelt. “And going to get worse, probably,” James adds. “Fracture clinic — that’s going to mean more physio, isn’t it?”

“Aye. An’ Laura said it’ll most likely be tougher still for you when the cast comes off.” Robbie continues rubbing and kneading, though he can feel the stiff muscle beginning to yield. And this really isn’t like sorting out Val’s cramping. James’s leg is long and lean, the muscle solid beneath smooth skin. This is the body of an athlete, and Robbie can’t help imagining the bloke in one of those rowing-boats, thighs and calves rippling as he moves smoothly back and forth, pulling and withdrawing the oars in perfect timing with the rest of the crew...

A resigned huff comes from behind Robbie, interrupting his thoughts. “Remind me never to break my leg again.”

Robbie lets out a bark of laughter. “Best stay away from taxis in foreign countries, then, hadn’t you?”

“To be fair, it wasn’t the taxi-driver’s fault.” Robbie feels James shifting slightly behind him. “Thank you, s— Robbie. That feels much better.” 

“Cramp gone?” He glances around at James. 

“Mmm.” James is looking more relaxed — but, abruptly, he winces. “Damn. Bloody cast. Itching,” he adds, as Robbie gives him a questioning look.

“Can’t help with that, sorry.” He gives James’s thigh a consoling pat, then realises what he’s done and winces internally. Bloody hell, what was he thinking? He withdraws his hand and pulls up the covers, then stands. “Leave you to sleep, unless there’s anything else you need?”

James shakes his head, then abruptly yawns. Robbie’s about to turn and leave, but feels his hand grasped in a warm clasp. He raises an eyebrow in enquiry. “Thank you, so very much.” James’s tone is sincere and emphatic. Then his lips curve up very faintly. “I’m going to owe you a lifetime of pints once I’m back on my feet, I think.” 

Robbie grins. “I’ll hold you to that, man.” He returns James’s grip briefly, then frees his hand. “Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Robbie.”

As he leaves, heading to his own bedroom, the sensation of warmth around his hand lingers — comforting, reassuring, yet oddly unsettling.

* * *

It’s a relief to have James back in his rightful place sitting across from Robbie, where he can see the lad any time he glances past his computer monitor. It feels as if a fundamental misalignment has abruptly, and happily, snapped back into proper place. All’s right with Robbie’s little corner of the universe — well, mostly. There’s still the small matter of the plaster cast that’s occasionally visible below the cuff of the loose tracksuit bottoms James will be wearing for the foreseeable future, and the aluminium crutches leaning against the bloke’s desk.

And, of course, James isn’t fully back to his usual job — he’s confined to desk duties for probably a couple of months yet. Right now, that’s fine; Robbie’s not yet back on the rotation anyway, and he’s still catching up on all those reports, but now with James making light work of a good chunk of them. Conversation in the office is also back to normal: no more over-enthusiastic cheerfulness. Instead, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards is punctuated by a combination of sardonic commentary on the documents and statements James is reading, and literary quotes and allusions. Who’d have thought Robbie’d ever admit — even to himself — that he’s missed being assaulted with bloody Shakespeare? But he has.

The only downsides are that he’s had to become the designated teaboy, since James can hardly be expected to procure drinks. And that the world and his wife seem to have found reasons to drop into their office over the course of the morning, asking how James is. “They just want to see the evidence for themselves,” James comments dryly after yet another incursion.

Not long after noon, Laura pops in, and she’s carrying a paper carrier bag from a sandwich café the three of them sometimes frequent. “Thought getting out for lunch might be a bit of a challenge,” she announces cheerfully. “How are you, James? It’s good to see you back.”

James leans back carefully in his chair. “It’s definitely good to be back, though I believe I would have preferred to have returned without the extra luggage.” He gestures to his cast.

“Well, if you will go gallivanting off to foreign parts...” Laura gives him a mischievous wink as she starts to unpack the bag. Roast beef on ciabatta for James, with what looks like his favourite fancy coffee, and some kind of pastry, and a ham and cheese focaccia for Robbie, with an ordinary white coffee and millionaire’s shortbread. “Don’t imagine you’re going to get delivery service every day, James. This is just to welcome you back.”

James looks genuinely touched. “Thank you, Doctor. Rest assured I don’t take your kindness for granted at all.”

“Glad to hear it. And, James,” she adds, perching lightly on the side of James’s desk, “I took the liberty of talking to a colleague who is a doctor in the fracture clinic at the JR. She says that if you like you can send her your discharge paperwork from the hospital in Prague and she can get you an appointment. Save you waiting to see your GP to get a referral.”

Robbie’s ready to intervene, given James’s reaction last night when he was reminded about the need to get follow-up care organised, but the lad gives Laura a lopsided, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Dr Hobson. That’s really helpful. If you give me her contact information, I’ll do that straight away.” He grimaces, making his face look longer than usual. “Not that I am particularly looking forward to further torture, but if it’s going to help ensure that I don’t end up with any long-term damage from this...” He shrugs, an expression of resigned tolerance.

“Indeed.” Laura smiles in sympathy. “How’s the nicotine withdrawal?”

James pulls a face. Robbie meets his gaze to give him an understanding twist of his lips. It has been rough on the lad. Several times a day, he’s noticed James patting his pockets before obviously realising that he doesn’t have any cigarettes, and anyway that he isn’t supposed to be smoking. He bets, too, that James has no idea how often he does it. 

“Here.” Laura reaches into her handbag and pulls out a large bag of what look like mints. “They’re sugar-free, so you won’t put on weight. When I gave up smoking — oh, yeah, I used to smoke,” she says on clearly feeling both their incredulous gazes on her. “Occupational hazard when you’re a junior doctor. All those long, long shifts — longer than now — and the stress and everything else. And most of the nurses smoked, too. If you didn’t actually take up smoking, you’d be almost as badly off thanks to the passive smoking. Anyway, having something to suck helped.” She rolls her eyes as James starts to smirk. “No smart-alec comments from you, Hathaway.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Doctor.” James reaches for the mints. “Thank you again.”

Laura pats James’s forearm and stands. “Look after him, Robbie. We want him back in one piece as soon as possible.”

“I do, too.” Robbie grins, waving in the direction of James’s left leg. “Sooner he’s back to being the one keeping me supplied with coffee, the better, far as I’m concerned!”

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long! And I owe a huge thanks to Owlbsurfinbird, who has given me so many delicious ideas for this story - she is single-handedly responsible for the fact that the fic is close to twice as long as originally intended.

“Big day today, eh?” Robbie grins at James over the breakfast table.

James sets his coffee down and heaves a long sigh. “I won’t be sorry to lose those.” He nods towards the crutches.

“Just hope you remember what to do with your left leg, after not using it for so long,” Robbie comments, lips twitching. 

“Can’t use it to trip suspects up yet.” James’s expression is suspiciously deadpan. “Could practice on you, though. Just to make sure I haven’t lost my technique.”

“Oi. Just for that, I should leave you to Hooper’s mercies to get to your appointment.” Robbie stands, tilting his head towards the door. “Time we got a wriggle on. Give those things their last airing.”

James reaches for the things in question, giving them a look of disgust as he does so. “Wonder how much I’d get if I sold them for scrap metal?”

Robbie snorts. “Come on. Car, you.”

He holds open the passenger door and stands ready to help in the unlikely event that James might need assistance. But the lad’s a dab hand at manoeuvring himself in and out of the car by now. Not surprising; it’s been more than four weeks since they got back from Prague, after all.

Four weeks of ups and downs, of alternately supporting and coercing James through his daily exercises, doing his best to keep the lad’s spirits up and, at work, find ways to prevent him feeling useless and frustrated at being stuck behind a desk while Robbie’s been out and about investigating the crimes assigned to his team. 

James, being James, has alternated between going hell for leather at his exercises, pushing himself too hard with the thigh-stretching and knee-bending he’s had to do, and then — because he pushed himself too hard the day before and he’s in pain — complaining and swearing when Robbie’d reminded him to get started. And, because he wouldn’t be James if he just left it at the recommended exercises, he’s also been working on maintaining his upper body strength, at least so far as his healing ribs will allow him. As he’s reminded Robbie on more than one occasion, he’s not smoking as well as not going for his daily runs and other regular activities, and he has no wish to put on weight.

As a result, there’ve been more cramps and aching muscles along the way, and after the second time Robbie had just gone to Boots and got a heating pad, ibuprofen gel and some lotion the pharmacy assistant had assured him would work well for massaging when necessary. It’s not just been James’s right calf giving him trouble. What with all the stretching, his left thigh’s needed attention too.

And so Robbie’s found himself in James’s bedroom at least twice a week, applying lotion and rubbing and kneading up and down aching muscles. It’s helped, so the looks of grateful appreciation James has given him each time have said. And he’d discovered, when he’d accompanied James on his first visit to the fracture clinic, that the massages help with healing the scar tissue. Didn’t make much sense to Robbie, given the broken bone is in the lower portion of James’s leg, but the doctor’d assured him it was true.

It’s been a lot of work, as James has pointed out more times than Robbie feels is necessary — but it’s not been a chore, not by any means. It’s been good to have someone around the flat for more than the occasional evening. To have company across the table over breakfast, even if neither of them’s much given to chatting at that hour of the morning. To have sounds around the place other than the clanking of central heating switching on and off, and the neighbours moving around. 

Company in the evenings, as well, the two of them slouching on the sofa together, bickering casually over what to watch on the telly and whether to have coffee or beer. James gradually slumping sideways and ending up leaning against Robbie as post-exercise weariness sets in — once or twice, to the point of resting his head against Robbie’s shoulder. He’s not sure whether James was even aware of what he’d done. And what’s odd, thinking about it, is that under different circumstances he knows he’d take the serious piss out of James the next day for doing something like that — but he hasn’t. 

Because, he realises, he hasn’t minded one bit. 

Even more disconcertingly, he’s had to stop himself on several occasions from looping his arm around James’s shoulders to pull the bloke in closer. It’d make him more comfortable, he’s told himself. But the uncomfortable realisation that he’d actually be cuddling his sergeant, a man who reports to him, has stopped him hard in his tracks every time. And he’s only too aware that it’s strange for that to be the main reason, and not because James is a man, or that he’s still grieving enough for Val to have pulled back from the possibility of a deeper relationship with Laura.

The flat’s going to feel very empty when James is finally recovered enough to go home. 

Not yet, though. Today’s just the exchanging of crutches and the current cast for a walking cast. It’s been made very clear by the doctor at the fracture clinic that this is not permission to behave as if James has no restrictions on his movements. A walking cast means he can put his foot to the ground and he can walk on the leg — but with support. Initially, either a Zimmer frame or a stabilising cane — and Robbie still wants to laugh at the sour expression on his sergeant’s face when that was mentioned — and then once he’s steadier on his feet a standard cane will do. He’ll still be advised to limit the amount of walking he does, and especially on uneven surfaces or stairs, beyond a small amount of practice on steps to build up strength. And he’s advised not to be alone, in case of falls or other accidents, and especially for supervision when exercising.

The appointment’s not until late morning, so they’re heading into the station first. Robbie has a suspect to interview, a habitual criminal who’s been cooling his heels in a cell overnight and is therefore going to be frustrated enough to be less careful than he might otherwise be. He glances at James as they wait at red traffic lights. “Want to interview Gregg with me?”

There’s the faintest movement of James’s eyes and lips, but to Robbie, who’s had six years to study and understand his awkward sod of a sergeant, it’s the equivalent of a blazing smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

It’s been frustrating for James at work as well. Robbie’s tried to involve him in active investigations as much as possible, and not only for James’s benefit; there’s no-one on his team better at research, or at very politely but persistently obtaining information over the telephone from people who cite supposedly-ethical reasons for failing to provide details to the police: lawyers, journalists, phone companies, assorted bigwigs and so on. It’s still not the same as being out and about, and Robbie is well aware, though James hasn’t said anything, that the bloke is trying hard not to resent it any time he sees Robbie collect one of the DCs for a scene visit or to go and talk to someone involved in a case.

They make a bloody good team, the two of them, when they’re shoulder to shoulder on a case. He hopes James knows Robbie’s feelings on that subject, and that Robbie’s got no intention of doing without James longer-term — unless, of course, the lad decided to look to his own career. Which he should be doing, but has made clear he has no interest in that at the moment. 

James pulls a face abruptly. “I’m not really dressed for interviewing.” He tugs at the stretch-cotton fabric of the track bottoms he’s wearing, one of three pairs he’s been rotating. 

“Doubt Gregg’ll care. Besides, I think the long bits of metal you’re carrying around will be a bit more noticeable than what you’re wearing on your legs.”

James grunts. “I can’t believe how much I’m looking forward to getting back into trousers.”

“Not yet you won’t. They still won’t fit over your cast.” 

A scowl — and then James’s face brightens. “There’s a place not far from the nick that does alterations. I could take a couple of pairs in and have the seams unpicked.”

“You could, if you really want to.” Robbie turns into the station car park. “Pub meal and a couple of pints tonight to celebrate your freedom from aluminium and hopping on one leg?”

By the look on the bloke’s face, Robbie could have offered to fulfil his wildest dream. “If you weren’t driving, I’d kiss you.”

“Oi.” Robbie casts a frown in James’s direction. “Save your kisses for someone you’d actually enjoy kissing.” Something’s fluttering in his chest as he steers the car into his space. Better not be bloody indigestion.

* * *

“Just kill me now. Please.” James sinks into a captain’s chair inside the Vicky Arms and closes his eyes in sheer relief. The stabilising cane he was given at the hospital earlier starts to slide, and Robbie catches it before it clatters to the floor.

The first couple of hours wearing the walking cast had gone pretty well for James. He’d had to practice first before leaving the clinic, which had involved walking up and down a long corridor, and then climbing and descending a small set of steps several times over. He’d insisted at first that everything was fine, that of course getting back to putting weight on his left leg took some getting used to and that in a couple of days he was sure he’d be walking smoothly.

Around late afternoon, Robbie’d caught sight of the first wince of pain. James had offered to go and collect some results from the tech team, and he’d been limping badly by the time he came back. “Leg’s tired,” he’d said, his tone casually dismissive, but Robbie knows better.

“Take a painkiller?” he suggests now, but James is shaking his head, without opening his eyes.

“You promised me a pint. Two pints, in fact. Nothing’s going to stop me enjoying those. Anyway, the alcohol will numb the pain.”

Robbie keeps his counsel. If he was in the lad’s place, he’d probably feel the same way. After that first evening when they’d had beer with dinner, James hasn’t had a single drink; painkillers aside, his doctor had recommended against it. 

But something about the way James is shifting in his chair makes him frown abruptly. “Not just your leg, is it?”

It’s a moment before James reacts, and at first he just pulls a face. “Back. Lower back on the other side.”

Ah — yes, the doctor’d warned that could happen. Robbie nods. “Want me to rub some gel on it when we get home?”

James takes a long gulp of his pint, then meets Robbie’s gaze, something that looks like longing in his eyes. What, the pain’s that bad? “Please.” He pulls a face then. “Oh, it’s not as bad as the pain in the first few weeks. It’s just that...”

“You were thinkin’ once you’d got to this stage you’d be on the mend?”

“Yeah.” James traces a squiggle in the condensation his glass has left on the table. “And getting out from under your feet so you can have your flat — and your life — to yourself again.”

It’s daft. He’s known all along that James will be going home as soon as he’s fit to cope alone again. But right at this moment it hits Robbie like a thunderclap: James will be leaving soon. Leaving his flat empty of anyone but Robbie himself, taking his smartarse comments and cleverclogs monologues and health-conscious lectures with him. 

And Robbie doesn’t bloody want him to go.

* * *

“Ahhhh...”

James’s moan sounds as if it’s torn out of him, and it goes straight to Robbie’s gut. Christ. Could this be any more inappropriate? Any more wrong, and against just about every rule that exists for senior officers and their subordinates?

James is lying on top of his bed, naked except for a pair of skin-tight briefs that look like they’re made of something like silk, and of course his cast. He’s all lean and hard muscle beneath pale, unblemished skin, and Robbie can’t help thinking of that exhibition of Ancient Greek Olympian paintings and sculptures Morse had insisted on going to while they were in Verona. James belongs somewhere like that.

He’s beautiful, and Robbie has no right thinking of him like that. And especially not as his hands knead and press over James’s lower back to the right of his spine, almost but not quite to the curve of his backside.

“That enough?” he asks, more gruffly than intended, but better that than James hears what’s really in his head.

Instantly, James turns his head to smile in gratitude, and that smile makes something inside Robbie’s chest ache. “It’s fine. Thank you. Really, thank you, Robbie.” 

And Robbie knows damned well that the lad would’ve been glad of another ten minutes or so of the welcome massage, but he doesn’t dare offer. 

What the fuck’s wrong with him? Lusting after a man — a _man_ — who’s not far off twenty-five years his junior, and who’s also his subordinate officer, duty-bound to follow his orders? Innocent would have him up on a disciplinary — Christ, he’d have himself up on a disciplinary.

It really is time he seriously considered retiring, once and for all.

* * *

The stabilising cane disappears and is replaced by a standard walking stick after a day or two, but James’s back pain lingers. And, as each evening in Robbie’s flat winds towards night and they gradually make moves towards heading to bed, Robbie knows James is hoping he’ll offer another backrub. He doesn’t. Can’t. 

He slides his gaze away from James’s, knowing the lad’s wondering why he’s backing away suddenly after being perfectly willing to rub the bloke’s thigh several times a week up till now. And, as James limps awkwardly and clearly painfully towards Robbie’s spare bedroom, Robbie curses himself for the stupid, useless sod he is.

The sooner James is out of the cast and declared fit to drive again, the better for both of them. Maybe then Robbie’ll be able to shake off this bloody insane attraction to his sergeant and things can get back to normal — before James realises what’s up with his boss and asks Innocent for a transfer.

James picks at his breakfast the following morning, and barely speaks beyond a “Yes, sir,” when asked if he slept well. It’s that _sir_ that provokes Robbie to abandon his initial decision to ignore his sergeant’s mood. 

“Something wrong?”

James taps his fingers against the tabletop for a moment or two, then his lips tug downwards at the sides. “I think it’s time I moved back home, sir. Yes, I know I can’t drive yet, but I can get a uniform to drive me in and out. It’s fine.”

“What are you talking about?” Robbie’s struggling to speak; his stomach feels like it’s been kicked.

“It’s very clear that I’ve outstayed my welcome, sir.” James is looking straight at him now. There’s no accusation in his expression, only apology and embarrassment.

And there’s no way that Robbie can let James take the blame for this. James isn’t the one who’s brought their comfortable cohabitation to a point where Robbie can’t let himself touch the bloke in case he betrays his reaction to it. James isn’t the one who’s betraying their long working relationship and friendship by having a mid-life sexuality crisis. And James isn’t the one who can’t bloody control himself enough to hide it.

Yes, it’d probably be for the best if James did go home. But best for whom? Not for James, who really shouldn’t be trying to cope on his own yet — and that’s not just Robbie’s opinion, but that of James’s doctor at the fracture clinic. It’s not just about James’s physical well-being, either. That look on his face is taking Robbie back to the hospital in Prague, where James simply hadn’t believed that Robbie’d come all that way just for him.

Has he ever had anyone care enough about him to put his well-being — physical and emotional — before their own?

If he lets James leave now, then no matter what he says James will never believe that he hadn’t come to be a nuisance, that Robbie wants rid of him.

“You’ve not.” Robbie says it as firmly, as convincingly, as he can. He wants James to know that he’s completely genuine about this, regardless of whatever else he’s not prepared to discuss. “It’s been nice havin’ you here. Far as I’m concerned, you can stay as long as you want.”

His assurance is greeted with confusion. “But the last couple of evenings you’ve seemed...” James shakes his head. “I know I’ve been putting a lot of demands on you, but up until a few days ago you didn’t seem to mind. I understand, though. It can’t be easy having someone else in your home for this kind of prolonged period, especially when you’re having to put yourself out to help me all the time.”

Robbie shakes his head quickly, emphatically. He’s really mucked this up, and there’s no way he can pretend he doesn’t know this is about his refusal to help James with his back pain. “It’s not putting meself out to help you, man. Thought you’d know that by now.” He stands and takes their plates away, since neither of them appears to have any further interest in breakfast. “Look, if this is about me not sortin’ out your muscle pain any more, it’s... well, it started to feel... inappropriate.”

“What?” Disbelief pours from James’s voice.

“Come on, man! I’m your boss, an’ there you are lyin’ almost starkers on the bed with me rubbing...” Robbie shakes his head, glad he’s got his back to James as he stacks the dishes by the sink.

He just about hears the faint sigh from James. “Of course, if it makes you uncomfortable, sir...”

With the clear indication that it doesn’t make James uncomfortable at all. “I’m sure you can imagine what Innocent would say,” he points out. 

“None of her business, is it?” There’s the sound of a chair being pushed back as James stands. “Look, of course I’ll manage the back pain on my own. I’d never want to put you in any situation where you’re uncomfortable. But I did think you’d made clear that you didn’t want me to think of you as my boss while I’m here. To me, that means you shouldn’t be thinking of me as your subordinate.”

Of course the lad’s right. Not that it makes any difference, since he hasn’t actually told James the full truth about his problem with the massages. Which means there really is only one way out of this.

“You’re right, cleverclogs.” Robbie comes over and leans his palms against the back of his chair. “Which means, yeah, I should be thinkin’ of what’s appropriate for a friend. And that _you_ shouldn’t be calling me sir or thinking you have to leave before you’re ready.” He straightens and reaches for his jacket, hanging on the back of one of the other chairs. “Time we were headin’ to work.”

James follows behind him like the perfect sergeant he — almost always — is, and it’s a relief to Robbie that, as he turns to lock the door, he catches sight of a faint smirk on the smartarse’s face.

* * *

Robbie’s out of the office most of the day, following up on interviewees flagged by the DCs as worth a second look in their latest murder investigation. He’s taken one of the DCs with him, a constable James has been talking up as ready for her sergeant’s exams. She isn’t James, of course, or anywhere close to his skills, but she’s keen and catches on quickly. James might be right about her readiness.

The case isn’t going anywhere very fast. All the interviews so far have led nowhere; no-one is certain about what they told the uniformed officers who did the original house-to-house they’d seen. No-one knows anyone who might have had a grudge against the victim, who’d been found with a knife in his chest two days ago, every door in his house open and every handle wiped clean. The victim himself leaves Robbie scratching his head: who’d want to kill a retired Chiltern Railways ticket collector who, since his retirement, had done nothing more exciting than poke around in his garden and grow carrots and runner-beans? No family in the picture, other than a sibling in the United States who hasn’t set foot in the UK in more than twenty years and who’s as baffled as Robbie as to who’d want to kill her brother.

Robbie’s about to suggest to DC Kent that they take a break and get a coffee at a cafe five minutes’ drive from here when, abruptly, his phone rings. It’s James, and he sounds — for him — excited. “Can you come back to the station now, sir? I have something I think might interest you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Robbie’s looking over James’s shoulder at their victim’s email inbox — a gmail account that James has been able to obtain the password for — and reading a correspondence thread in which the dead man, Malcolm Thorndale, and someone using the nickname CollectorKing argued bitterly and aggressively about, of all things, sweet tins. 

Robbie shakes his head in bemusement. “Tins? What sort—”

James pulls a photograph closer. It’s of a glass-fronted bookcase in Thorndale’s dining-room, which is full of carefully-arranged small tins of the sort that mints and boiled sweets were sold in thirty or forty years ago or more. Double-decker buses, union jacks, royal crests, Beefeaters, phone boxes, London landscapes — all the kind of thing Robbie remembers buying in his youth. 

“Those are collectibles?”

“Apparently so, sir. Not only are they collectible, but so much in demand that it appears CollectorKing may have been willing to kill to obtain one in — forgive me, sir — _mint condition_ that he felt should have been his.”

And that, it appears, is exactly what CollectorKing did believe. He — or she — had been negotiating with a seller, but then discovered that Thorndale had swept in and bought the item outright. In the week before Thornton was murdered, the vitriol in CollectorKing’s emails, in response to Thorndale’s gloating, escalated to the point where CollectorKing explicitly threatened murder.

“How do we go about identifying this CollectorKing?” Robbie looks away from the computer screen to James, who is now looking extremely smug.

“Already done, and I didn’t even have to lean heavily on Google.” The corners of James’s mouth turn upwards. “Clive Ramsden uses the same nick on several collector websites, including an auction site, on which he is required to provide a full name and address for verification purposes. Using that information, I obtained photographs, vehicle and banking records, and was able to find his car on CCTV less than a quarter of a mile from Thorndale’s house within an hour of the estimated time of death.” James clicks on his mouse, and an enlarged photo appears of a man in the driving seat of a beige car. “All circumstantial so far, sir, but enough for a warrant to search his home and obtain DNA samples.”

“More than enough,” Robbie agrees. “S’pose I should go and see Innocent, then.”

Another smirk from James. “Already done. We should have the warrant imminently. Unfortunately, he lives in Swansea so, unless you particularly want a close to three-hour drive, given traffic at this time of day, I’d recommend that we request assistance from South Wales Police.”

“And let me guess.” Robbie raises one eyebrow. “You’ve already done that too.”

James just grins.

* * *

“Bloody show-off, you.” Robbie jabs James with his elbow as they sit nursing near-empty bottles of Bridge on the sofa. “Only you could solve a murder single-handed while confined to desk duties.”

James shrugs. “I have to safeguard my position, don’t I? Can’t have you deciding to replace me with DC Kent while I’m not performing at my best.”

“Yeah, right.” Robbie snorts. “Can safely say you’re at no risk there. She doesn’t even know how I like me coffee.”

“I’m relieved to know my coffee-acquisition skills are part of what enables me to keep my position.” James eases himself to his feet. “Which, I suppose, is a hint that you would like some coffee now?”

“Won’t say no.” He follows James into the kitchen nonetheless, taking down mugs and getting milk out while James puts the kettle on and prepares the cafetiere. Robbie has hardly had a cup of instant in his flat since James moved in. On the few occasions he’d had the temerity to take the jar of Nescafé out of the cupboard, he’d been met with either a disapproving look or a pout of epic proportions. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but James has him well and truly trained in using the cafetiere now.

“How’s your back this evening?” he asks as they bring their drinks back to the couch. He’s noticed the lad’s been reaching behind to rub his lower back with increasing frequency.

He’s watching James closely, so doesn’t miss the signs of an inner struggle. The lad wants to lie and say he’s fine, but knows he won’t get away with it. James’s lips tilt downwards. “Annoying.”

“Right.” Robbie tilts his head towards the hallway. “When you’ve got that down you, we’ll go and sort you out.”

“No, really, there’s no need, Robbie. I don’t want—”

“Offered, didn’t I? I’ll hear no more about it.” He’ll give the bloke the massage James needs if it kills him. He can’t let the lad go to bed in that kind of pain but, even more important, he won’t let James believe that Robbie can’t bear to touch him.

Only another few days of this. Then the cast comes off and James will have full use of both his legs. That should cut down on the back pain and the need for Robbie to lay his hands on his sergeant’s smooth skin and beautiful body — and, finally, stop him having these completely inappropriate thoughts about what he really wants to do to James.

Only another few days. It’ll take a lot of willpower and determination, but he can hold out another few days.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to everyone who was expecting that this would be the final chapter. Unfortunately, the story ran away from me a bit, and so there is one more to come.
> 
> **Huge** thanks to Owlbsurfinbird, who very kindly stepped in as beta-reader and whose comments and suggestions have made this chapter so much better than it would have been. *tips imaginary hat*
> 
> * * *

“Dunno whether that looked better before your wrapping was cut off.” Robbie tilts his head in the direction of James’s newly-bared left leg.

“You’re so kind.” James’s tone is dry, but his attention’s all on his leg, thinner and even paler than the bloke’s usual skin tone, as he flexes his ankle and rotates the foot.

“Don’t assume you‘re back to normal just because the cast is off,” the doctor warns then. “You’ll still be in a lot of pain — remember, the bone’s just healed, and your body’s still coming out of compensation mode. The back pain’s likely to continue for a while longer, for one thing. You will also be starting a new batch of exercises now that the leg isn’t weighed down and immobilised.”

Robbie listens as the doctor runs through exercises James will be starting with the physio: leg lifts lying on the side, leg raises against resistance lying flat, more walking up and down stairs, and swimming. Does a lot to help rebuild muscle tone, swimming, apparently.

And, as the two of them take all this in, Robbie’s absorbing something else: his role in aiding James’s recovery isn’t over. James can’t do all these exercises alone. He’ll need supervision, especially in the swimming-pool, and someone’s going to have to provide the resistance for the leg raises. Help from someone James trusts, the doctor’s saying. More help than before. And the doctor’s looking at Robbie, questioning, checking whether he’s willing to provide that help.

Well, of course he sodding well is! Why wouldn’t he? It’s not just that there’s no-one else. Even if there was someone, it wouldn’t matter. It’s Robbie’s place. James is _his_ — his sergeant, he corrects himself quickly — and that’s all there is to it.

But. Swimming with James. In water, wearing nothing but swimming trunks. Christ. He’ll need to find the most public pool around, and go at the busiest time. That’ll distract him enough, surely, that he won’t have any inappropriate reactions. Won’t even think about how much he wants to touch more than is needed for therapeutic care.

Just as bloody well the lad no longer needs help in the shower.

“Yeah,” he says, hoping the trepidation he’s feeling isn’t showing. “Course I can help.”

* * *

“I could get a personal trainer at the gym.” They’re in the car on the way back to the nick, and the guilt in James’s voice tugs at Robbie again. 

If it wasn’t for the fact that the man’s clearly feeling that he’s asking too much, Robbie might have been tempted to let James work with a trainer. The best way to resist temptation, he knows from all his experience with human nature, is to stay out of its way altogether. If he’s not close to a near-naked James, he can’t have inappropriate thoughts and impulses, can he? But even as he considers that, his brain’s flooded with images of James in the pool with a strong, muscular bloke who’s swimming alongside him, supporting him when he needs it, and massaging up and down James’s legs and back while he rests against the bar. 

_No_. 

“No need to do that, man.” Robbie can’t let himself look at James. If the bloke so much as suspects how much Robbie wants to touch him, doesn’t want anyone else to touch him... Christ, James would run all the way back to Prague. Robbie’s not only being selfish by wanting to keep James to himself, he’s betraying the man who’s not only his sergeant but his friend. 

It’s only another couple of weeks. It’s what he tells himself, and he knows that doesn’t make it right, but once James’s recovery is complete and the bloke’s back to full strength, then everything will be back to normal. James will move back to his own flat, and Robbie won’t ever need to see him near-naked again unless they happen to go to the gym together — which, probably, he should avoid, at least until he’s got past these completely ridiculous reactions.

“If you’re absolutely sure?” There’s still a furrow in James’s forehead, and hesitation in his voice.

“Completely sure.” The confidence in Robbie’s voice does the trick; thirty years as a detective has taught him plenty about the art of hiding his true reactions. James nods, smiling in what looks like genuine relief, and it’s agreed. “Pool tonight after work, then?”

“Can’t wait.”

* * *

It couldn’t be too bad in the pool, Robbie’d reassured himself earlier. After all, there’d be plenty of people around, in the pool and around the sides. Kids as well as adults. He’d be too aware of being in the public eye to have any kind of inappropriate reaction if he had to touch James in the pool.

And then James had said he wanted to go in the last hour before closing. He didn’t want to be limping around and clearly needing Robbie’s support with more people looking on than could possibly be helped. And — and Robbie’s still kicking himself for not having thought of that — more people in the pool means more chance of James’s leg getting accidentally banged. It’s worse than that, too — it’ll be too dangerous for him to use his crutches on the slippery tiles in the pool area, and probably the changing rooms as well, so he’ll need Robbie’s arm to get around, and to climb in and out of the pool.

So here they are at the Ferry Leisure Centre in Summertown at around quarter past nine. The pool’s nearly empty and even the gym’s emptying out. 

And James would prefer tight Speedos to the type of loose drawstring shorts Robbie wears. Fanbloodytastic.

Then James takes his first unaided step since exiting the cubicle, and the instant agony on his face shoves all other thoughts out of Robbie’s head. Bloody hell, what sort of thoughtless, selfish git is he? 

“Come on, lean on me.” He’s next to James in an instant, his arm around the lad’s waist, encouraging James to get closer. James’s arm goes around Robbie’s shoulders and they walk, slowly, carefully, across the wet tiles to the pool. From there, James holds onto the steps until Robbie’s standing in the water, waiting for James to lower himself in.

Once they’re both in, it’s easy to see why swimming’s recommended as good exercise. James isn’t putting his body weight on the still-healing bone while he’s giving the leg a decent workout. And it’s easy for Robbie to focus on making sure that James isn’t overdoing things, instead of letting his attention drift to completely inappropriate thoughts. 

And then he has to get James _out_ of the pool. 

He’d thought it would be simple. They’d swim to the shallow end, he’d help James to sit on the steps, and then he could climb out himself and help James to push himself up from behind. The lad’s got stronger biceps than anyone else Robbie’s known, so it should have been straightforward.

Only it’s not. James is knackered, and the lines around his temples and mouth reveal the pain he’s deliberately not mentioning. Any movement seems to jolt his leg and cause greater pain. Robbie could try dragging him out from behind, but that’ll shift his leg around even more and maybe bang it against the hard metal steps or, worse, the tile surround of the pool itself. And then, somehow, James has to stagger back to the cubicle — even with Robbie to lean on, he’s going to find that agonising.

There’s nothing else they can do, though. He stands in the water in front of James. “This is gonna hurt, man.”

James shrugs faintly, the lines around his mouth accentuated in the fluorescent lights above the pool. “Well, since I assume the alternative is me staying in here all night... what do you suggest?”

“I either drag you out from behind, which I don’t think is a good idea, or I get right up close to you here an’ lift you up onto the tiles. Best away from the steps, though, because I don’t want to bang your leg as we get you standing.”

James nods, and the weariness in his eyes, combined with the obvious pain, twist at Robbie’s stomach. 

Once James has shuffled over a little and is leaning against the wall, Robbie moves in close, squatting a little so that he can get the right grip. “All right. Put your arms around my neck and brace yourself.” James does, and Robbie grips around the bloke’s hips, pushing up on his arse. As James lifts, Robbie moves in closer, until he’s actually standing between James’s thighs. _Christ_. Can they get any more intimate? He takes a deep breath, gives one more heave, and James reaches down to press his hands against the tiles, pulling himself up, and then he’s sitting on the edge. Robbie breathes a sigh of relief.

By the time he’s out of the pool, James is already half-standing, having used the bar of the steps to pull himself up. Robbie offers his arm to help him the rest of the way, 

“Okay, arm around me,” Robbie instructs James, wrapping his own arm against the lad’s waist. “Lean on me as much as you need. You know I can bear your weight.” 

Though, of course, when he did it before he’d been fuelled by sheer desperation, the knowledge that he had seconds, at most, to get James out of that house before the whole place went up and took both of them with it. 

And, of course, then he didn’t have a bad back. He’s taking most of the weight of James now, and the tiles are slippery from a day’s usage. James is gripping onto him tightly as he shuffles along next to Robbie, and Robbie’s taking one careful step at a time, concentrating intently so that he doesn’t even come close to losing his balance. The distance, which hadn’t seemed long at all when he’d helped James out, now seems almost impossible, James growing even increasingly heavy against him, making his back twist painfully.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” James gasps as his hip connects sharply with Robbie’s when they turn into the changing-room. 

“It’s nothing.” Robbie shifts his grip, his hand sliding up James’s slippery body as he tries to find a decent purchase. “Almost there.”

There’s a low mutter from James in response, which Robbie translates either as _Thank God for that_ , or possibly something in Latin. Either’s as likely, knowing James. 

Only another fifteen or so feet now, but James is almost a dead weight, his body draped against Robbie’s side, and Robbie’s going to need a double dose of anti-inflammatories when he gets home. But he’s not going to let James see that he’s in pain. That would just ensure that James would refuse to let Robbie help him again, and the lad needs this. Who’s going to take James to the pool and help him in and out, and with those exercises he’s supposed to do in the water, if not Robbie?

It’s a weight off his mind in more than just the literal sense when he’s finally able to lower James down to the bench. Until his wrist brushes James’s groin as he’s letting go of the bloke, and what he feels, beyond any doubt, is rigid, hot flesh.

* * *

James is silent in the car, staring directly in front of him as they drive through the wet streets to Robbie’s flat. The torrential rain and incessant thunder means that Robbie needs all his attention focused on driving anyway — not so much controlling his own car, but keeping eyes everywhere, including in the back of his head, for the sort of idiot who doesn’t know how to drive in this weather and ends up causing an accident.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates James’s face, strain visible in every line. The bloke’s in a lot of pain, of course, and the sooner Robbie gets him home and gets painkillers inside him, the better. Knowing James Hathaway, he’ll be embarrassed too, which is ridiculous. They’re both blokes; they both know that kind of reaction can be prompted by lots of things, including some completely unrelated to any kind of sexual arousal. And with the amount of pain James was in, as well as the discomfort he had to be feeling at being carried over his boss’s shoulder, there’s no way it could have been sexual. What was even there for James to have a sexual reaction to?

Back at the flat, once James has made his awkward, halting way inside, Robbie shoos him off to his bedroom, following him in a couple of minutes later with a glass of water and painkillers — once he’s taken his own painkillers, of course. “Got the kettle on, too, so I’ll bring you a cuppa in a bit.” 

James accepts the painkillers, but shakes his head at the tea. “I just need to sleep. Thanks.”

His tone’s more abrupt than Robbie would expect, but that’s clearly the pain, too. Bugger. There’s nothing for it. He managed to control his reactions last night, anyway, didn’t he? He can do it again. And anyway, this isn’t about him; it’s about what James needs. “All right, canny lad. Let’s get those jeans off you an’ I’ll give your leg a rub.”

“ _No._ ” Again, it’s sharper than Robbie would’ve expected. And it’s daft, too. James needs this — his doctor said so, apart from anything else, and James knows it’s helped him before. But Robbie knows his stubborn sergeant, and there’s no point arguing with him when he’s like this, so closed-off and determined.

“All right.” He straightens, backing away. “Call me if you change your mind, all right?”

James’s expression softens fractionally. “Thank you. I’m s— I’m just tired. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Course you will.” Easier just to agree; sometimes, it’s one step at a time with James, even if those steps are occasionally backwards. “Night.”

* * *

“I’ve made a right pig’s ear of it, love.” On one knee, Robbie carefully pulls out the dead flowers from the container on Val’s grave. “I must’ve let him know the sort of things I’ve been thinking. I thought I’d been so careful, that the one saving grace was that he couldn’t possibly know. But he must. The pain he was in last night, pet... there’s no way he wouldn’t have wanted me to help him, unless he’s worked it out.”

One by one, he threads the tiger lilies and autumn crocuses through the mesh, arranging the colourful stems as he does so. Val always did like bright colours in flowers. “I don’t know whether to talk to him about it, tell him... Oh, I’ve no idea what I’d tell him. That it’s nothing? It’ll go away once I’m not needin’ to touch him and be that close to him again?” Robbie shakes his head. “Why would he believe it? An’ anyway, it’d only make him say I don’t need to help him the way I’ve been doing. And, knowing James, he’d say it to make _me_ feel better. Not himself. Things’d never be the same between us again.”

He stands, laying a hand on the top of the gravestone. “And if I say nothing? Then what? He barely said a word at breakfast. It’s there between us, eating away at both of us. We both know it’s a problem, but we’re not acknowledging it. Not that that’s anything new with James, but when I’ve ignored it before it’s only made things far worse in the end.”

There’s clay on the knee of his good suit. Robbie bends to brush it off. The ground’s still damp after last night’s rain. Damn it, that’s another suit that’s got to go to the dry-cleaners, after that bloody awful crime scene he got called to give his opinion on yesterday afternoon.

“It’s not just that, though, pet. What if he keeps not letting me help him? It’s not just the pain he’s in, though seeing him like that’s bad enough. If he doesn’t get the help he needs — or, worse, if he starts trying to do too much himself — it could set his recovery back.” Robbie sighs, long and loud. “I know, you think I should talk to him, but — about this? I don’t even understand it meself.”

Being attracted to a bloke. Him. Robbie Lewis, the lifelong heterosexual. Well, all right, it’s not as if he doesn’t know that it’s not as simple as a straight binary line, no pun intended. But him — he’s fifty-eight, was married to the same woman for twenty-five years, and never a hint that he might find his own gender attractive.

_Does it matter?_ The hint of a voice in his head sounds just like Val’s plain common sense, though could just as easily be his own conscience. A conscience that’s currently prodding him to get back to the station. He only went out, he told James, to go to the bank. More than time he stopped procrastinating, then.

* * *

The office is empty when he gets back; both James and his crutches have gone. Before Robbie has a chance to check whether James left him a message, Julie sticks her head around the door. “Sergeant Hathaway asked me to let you know he’s in Viewing Room Two, sir.”

Robbie nods his thanks and heads off in search of his missing bagman. He knocks, then walks straight into the room, finding James with his gaze focused on a monitor, noise-cancelling headphones dwarfing his narrow head. A couple of steps closer, and both what James is watching and the bright pink on his sergeant’s face are visible.

“Not still blushin’ at porn, are you?”

James jumps and tears off his headphones. “Sir! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Too focused on what you were watchin’, looks like.” Before James can get defensive, Robbie perches on the edge of the desk. “That’s the murder victim I got called out to look at last night,” he comments with a frown.

James nods, his gaze kept studiously averted from Robbie. “Yes. They collected a lot of evidence from the house, so Innocent asked me to help the evidence officer go through it.”

“Ah. An’ you got the... what, home movies?”

James nods. “There’s at least a dozen, all with the same woman, though a variety of partners. All very explicit... and violent. And all—” Now, he does turn to look at Robbie, pink still visible on his face and neck. “Clearly consensual, despite the brutality. There’s no coercion anywhere.”

“Hmm.” Robbie drums his fingers on the side of the monitor, then gestures for the headphones. James passes them over, then restarts the video when Robbie signals. It only takes a few seconds for him to agree with James. There’s violence, yes, including mock-strangulation, but it’s all part of the sex-play. BDSM, and the woman who’s on the receiving end of the rough play is very definitely in charge. And the location is the bedroom in the woman’s house. “Sex game that went too far? And her partner panicked.” He pulls a face. “Can understand that, all right, but not phoning the police? Or coming forward when he saw on the news that the body was found?” 

He stands and indicates that James can stop the video. His sergeant does so with obvious relief. “Get those locked away an’ come and have a coffee. We can tell Laxton our conclusions after.”

“Thank you, sir.” The relief on James’s face is obvious. It still surprises Robbie that the bloke gets so flustered with this sort of stuff; after all, they see it all the time on the job. But then, he had two years in Vice, and James didn’t — and also, the bloke spent next to no time as a DC and no time at all in uniform. Julie, for example, would barely have blinked at this — not that he’d tell James that.

“Go on, out an’ get some fresh air,” Robbie urges James. “I’ll get the coffee and join you.”

James is more his normal self when Robbie finds him a few minutes later, sitting on an upturned crate with his crutches balanced against the wall beside him. Robbie passes over a paper cup of Americano from the posh espresso machine in the canteen. After what the lad’s just had to endure, the standard dishwater wouldn’t suffice. James’s fingers twitch as he takes the cup, and Robbie frowns. “Not still bothered, are you?”

“No. Well, yes, but...” James’s lips twist downwards. “Nicotine craving. Haven’t had one in weeks, but after that...” He shakes his head. “Not going to. Don’t even have any with me, anyway.” He tilts his head back to lean against the wall. “I don’t know why it affects me like... I mean, you can watch without batting an eyelid.”

“Downside of the fast-track scheme,” Robbie comments, an amused quirk to his lips. “You barely spent any time as a constable. You got away with not doing as much routine evidence-checking as most officers would at the start of their careers. You’re just not used to it, not the way most of the others are.”

James nods agreement. “It does make sense.” He raises an eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is I need to spend more time on the scut-work?”

“Don’t be daft. Need your massive brain wi’me, don’t I? Besides, what do you think Innocent’d say if she found out her preferred candidate for the next inspector vacancy was wasting his skills on DC tasks? You know how to do the work, that’s all that matters.”

“She can wait,” James mutters darkly. It’s a conversation they’ve had once or twice before, of course, and Robbie’s still not certain whether James intends to push on with his career once Robbie retires, or whether he’s daft enough to mean what he said a year or so ago about going if Robbie did. Ah well, he’s got a few years left to work on the lad.

For now, though, the encouraging thing is that James isn’t avoiding him the way he did this morning. Maybe all the awkwardness is out of the way.

* * *

It feels like it might be. At home, James has to do some resistance exercises, which require Robbie to press his palm against James’s lower calf and have James push against it to try to raise his leg. James seems perfectly amenable to doing it with Robbie’s help, and even talks a bit while they’re at it, until the effort of pushing becomes too much for him to carry on a conversation at the same time.

Despite the pain his exertions are clearly causing him, James carries on long past Robbie’s urging him to stop. Stubborn bastard, he is — but then this kind of thing isn’t new to him. Once, James described the exercise regimes he had to go through daily and weekly as a rower. It’d left Robbie — who considers himself generally fit, and he’d done a lot of extra exercise in his rugby-playing days — exhausted at the mere thought. 

Finally, James declares himself finished and says he’s off for a shower. Robbie helps him up and passes him the crutches. “Get yourself on the bed after an’ I’ll give your leg a massage, yeah?”

But he gets a quick head-shake. “Not necessary. I’ll just use the heating pad, if you wouldn’t mind putting it in the microwave for me in about ten minutes?”

Robbie does, and makes his suggestion again when he brings the pad into James’s bedroom once he hears the bloke going back in there after his shower. But James, a towel resting over his hips and thighs, politely insists that it’s not necessary. 

And, recognising the desperate plea in his friend’s eyes, an expression he’s only ever see James wear a couple of times before, Robbie retreats.

* * *

“I think it’s time I moved back home.” Over breakfast the next day, James’s tone is upbeat as he makes the announcement. “I don’t need the crutches all the time now, and I can get someone to drive me back and forth. I’ve presumed on your goodwill long enough.” Robbie’s about to interrupt to insist that’s not the case, but James continues, “It’ll be good to get home.”

Robbie wants to argue. But several things are making themselves very apparent to him right now.

James is embarrassed. Despite his apparently carefree tone, his fists are closed so tightly the knuckles are white. And — very surprising for someone who’s so observant when they’re speaking to suspects and witnesses — he’s not trying to hide the tell. That says he’s either not aware of it, or he’s too wound up to have the presence of mind to hide.

Embarrassed about the pool still? Or is he suspicious about Robbie’s motives? He’d been fine with Robbie yesterday at work, and here in the evening. But he’s backing away from any hint of intimacy, isn’t he? Well, only to be expected. It’s got to be weird being that close to your boss, and now that James is just about recovered enough not to be as dependent on Robbie, it’s just about possible that he really just wants his own space. And the embarrassment... well, maybe Robbie would’ve been embarrassed if he’d had to be repeatedly near-naked around Morse, and Morse’d needed to touch him and get as close as he’s been to James, to help him. 

Though, however much Robbie rationalises it, he can’t shake the feeling that James does suspect something about how Robbie’d reacted to him.

Even if he doesn’t, James clearly wants to get away from Robbie’s flat — from Robbie. So he can’t insist that the bloke stays, no matter that James shouldn’t be managing on his own yet. It’s not fair to James.

And... the inappropriateness of all of this. He’s James’s boss. Language from the numerous managerial seminars and briefings he’s attended over the years is assaulting him: breach of trust, conflict of interest, abuse of power. 

With all of that... even if he felt capable of talking to James about what might be going on: about his own reactions to the bloke, about James’s arousal at the pool, how could he possibly? It’s not only that James couldn’t possibly be attracted to Robbie — that was just friction at the pool, after all, wasn’t it? — but also that their working relationship puts a completely different slant on any conversation of that nature. He’s James’s boss: what if... Well, James’d know better than to imagine Robbie would put any kind of pressure on him, either to respond in kind or to keep Robbie’s admission a secret. 

But, knowing James, he would feel obliged to behave no differently at work, even if he felt uncomfortable around Robbie. Wouldn’t he? Or he’d ask Innocent to be reassigned, despite how much Robbie knows James likes being his sergeant.

No, Robbie can’t talk to James about any of this, for the man’s own sake.

He has to let James make up his own mind. Even if it does mean Robbie’s going to be worried sick about him in that flat on his own with a still-dodgy leg, and no-one to help him with exercises. 

“All right. If it’s what you want, I’ll take you over there after work.”

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, at last! I do apologise for keeping everyone who's been reading this hanging for so long. I hope the longer-than-usual chapter makes up for it a bit.
> 
> With _**huge**_ thanks to Owlbsurfinbird, whose helpful, thoughtful and kind suggestions and comments on this chapter have made it (I hope!) so much better! Any remaining errors and omissions are all mine.
> 
> * * *

Robbie’s got conditions on James returning home, and he won’t hesitate to pull rank as he lays them out. He insists that he’ll drive James back and forth to the nick, unless he can’t because work gets in the way. And James has to promise to phone him at any time, day or night, if he needs help.

“Then there’s your exercises,” he continues as he helps James to pack. “You need help with those. Your doctor said.”

“I’ll be fine.” James glances his way only briefly. “I found out today that Gurdip swims regularly. He says he’ll be happy to help me in the pool. That way I won’t be putting your back at risk.”

So much for thinking he’d managed to hide that from James. He would have to have a bloody observant sod for a sergeant.

“And,” James continues, “I can do the resistance exercises at work. It’s probably a better time, before I’m too tired to want to do them. Gurdip offered to help with those, too.” James pauses in the act of putting folded clothes in his holdall. “I really am very grateful for everything you’ve done, Robbie. And I know you’ve told me over and over that you don’t mind, but I can’t keep depending on you. It doesn’t feel right. It’s time everything got back to normal.”

It feels right to Robbie, and he’s not that bothered how quickly things go back to normal, but it’s James’s decision. Apart from anything else, it’s completely possible that he’s found living with his boss to be cramping his style, or whatever today’s youth call it.

Back in his empty flat later, Robbie strips the bed James had been using and tidies up a bit, then finds himself on the sofa with no idea what to do next. Nothing on the telly’s appealing, and he’s just not interested in tackling the hoovering or any of the other bits of housework that have been accumulating. He even considers going back to work, but dismisses the idea as it’s almost ten o’clock. 

Instead, he just watches the news, occasionally voicing aloud his opinion on politicians or other public figures who are making headlines tonight. There’s no smartarse comeback to any of his comments. 

He gives it up as a bad job and just goes to bed.

* * *

James, when Robbie picks him up the following morning, is irritatingly cheerful. He’s clearly had a good night’s sleep, with none of the tossing and turning Robbie’s had. Being back in his own flat’s done him good.

And once in the office, James vanishes off as soon as he’s checked his email and dealt with the urgent tasks in his in-tray. Julie Lockhart, who’s recently become a DC, has just been on a week’s training in suspect interviewing, and needs to get some practice in. A team of DCs, under James’s supervision, just arrested a gang of twenty-somethings for a spate of burglaries with menace, and so Julie’s going to be doing some of the interviews, accompanied by James.

It’s quiet in their shared office, and the working day is bloody tedious, since Robbie’s got no fewer than three reports to write for Innocent. He’d normally hand one of them off to James; team statistics is far more Hathaway’s cup of tea, and he’s good at the pretty graphics and Excel tables Innocent likes. Beyond the shared work, James is also good for keeping Robbie’s spirits up with his well-timed smartarse comments and wry smiles — and, of course, somehow knowing exactly when Robbie needs a cuppa or a bite to eat.

It’s late afternoon before James returns to the office, leaning heavily on his crutches despite putting weight on his healing leg. Robbie catches the bloke’s eye, sending a silent but clear message that James has been overdoing it, in his opinion. 

“Before you say anything, I’ve just done twenty minutes of resistance exercises with Gurdip.” The undertone of antagonism in James’s voice is bloody annoying, considering Robbie’s not actually spoken at all, much less levelled an accusation.

And if anyone should be put out here, it’s Robbie. Yes, it makes sense for James to do those exercises during the day — but why does he have to search out Gurdip? Why not let Robbie help him, just as Robbie’s done every day since a couple of days after James’s accident? Why’s Robbie suddenly become a pariah?

But he knows why, and that’s why he won’t say a word. Best to keep a professional distance, and hope that James soon concludes that he was wrong about Robbie’s interest in him.

“All right, well, ‘bout time you got back. Got a report for you to finish.” He shoves the manila folder in James’s direction and emails the draft. “Team stats. Your favourite.”

James rolls his eyes. “Oh, wonderful. You do know how to make me feel appreciated, sir.”

Robbie suppresses a smirk. “Keep that up an’ I’ll show you me appreciation even more when Innocent wants the quarterly budgetary analysis.” But he gets up, leaving the office with a “Back in five minutes,” and returns bearing decent coffee — as decent as can be had in the canteen — and a couple of scones, and all harmony’s restored.

When James emails him the completed — and, of course, written with so many bloody multi-syllable words that Robbie’s going to have to edit it before sending it to Innocent — statistical report, Robbie grunts his thanks, then looks around his monitor. “Pint on the way home?”

But James instantly shakes his head with a regretful grimace. “I would, but Gurdip suggested going to the pool he uses straight after work. He says it doesn’t get busy until around seven.”

Gurdip again. And the disappointment that slams into Robbie takes him by surprise; it’s only a bloody pint. Still, he can’t blame the lad for doing everything he can to aid his recovery.

All the same, he can’t help the images that suddenly flood his mind: Gurdip in the pool with James; Gurdip supporting him while he swims; Gurdip helping him out of the pool, their wet bodies pressed tightly together the way his and James’s were just a couple of nights ago.

 _No._ It’s not right to be thinking about James like this, and now he’s bloody bringing someone else into it, too. Christ, he’s in danger of becoming a pervert. What James does outside work is his own business, and he has a right not to have his boss thinking about him in completely inappropriate ways.

“All right, then.” He has to exert stern control to keep his voice sounding normal. “Maybe tomorrow?”

James nods, pushing himself to his feet and reaching for his crutches. Robbie wants to caution him not to overdo it, but stops himself; it’s none of his business, after all, is it? He’s only James’s boss.

* * *

The three am callout two mornings later doesn’t improve Robbie’s mood much, after a frustrating evening spent trying to make sense of the file on another senior officer’s stalled case passed to him by Innocent. Standing in Port Meadow in torrential rain waiting for Laura to finish her initial examination of a body in situ, with a DC who’s slow to arrive and then hasn’t even thought to bring an umbrella... it’s enough to make him start thinking again about retirement.

By the time the body’s finally moved, more than two hours later, and he’s reminded the DC about proper procedure in beginning an investigation, Robbie’s soaked through and just wants to get home for a shower and change of clothes. He calls James to let his sergeant know he’ll need to arrange a lift for himself into work. 

“Body in Port Meadow, sir?” James asks before Robbie’s even had to explain. “I heard you had Callaghan.” The dry tone speaks volumes.

“Was he off sick the day you did crime-scene training?” Robbie grumbles. He doesn’t bother asking how James knows. The bloke’s got eyes and ears everywhere — but then, such is the mark of a good sergeant. There was barely a thing Morse got up to in Robbie’s absence that he didn’t get informed about.

“He won’t be next time,” James promises with an edge to his voice. “Go and get dry, sir. I’ll make my own way in and see you later.”

It’s not even a three-minute conversation, and yet Robbie feels warmed through by the time he presses the End button. He got bloody lucky the day Hathaway asked to be given first refusal, didn’t he?

A little over an hour later, Robbie enters his squad-room to see the team hard at work. There’s an evidence board already under way, with photos and key information, and evidence boxes are stacked up on a large table with four or five officers sorting through them. James, with no crutches today — or maybe they’re in the office — has Callaghan in a corner and is clearly providing chastisement as well as instruction, judging by the crestfallen look on the DC’s face.

Robbie heads into his office, intending to dispose of his coat before joining the team for an update — and halts by his desk as he notices the cardboard cup sitting there, the brand name emblazoned on it declaring that this isn’t canteen coffee. And next to it is a paper bag, which Robbie opens to reveal his favourite almond pastry from the same posh coffee-shop.

Of course James would know he hasn’t had breakfast, and that his energy levels are dipping after the early start and prolonged drenching. 

Robbie turns in place to look back out through the window to where James is still talking to Callaghan. As if drawn by Robbie’s attention, James glances around and their gazes meet. Robbie nods, and James’s lips curve very slightly upwards. 

And Robbie’s chest does a mini-somersault, even as he sags back against the edge of his desk as realisation sinks in. 

It wasn’t just the frustration of Grainger’s stalled case that had him on edge and moody last night and made him sleep poorly even before the phone-call that woke him. 

It isn’t just missing the gentle wind-down of after-work pints with James that has him going home unable to relax, that’s made the flat seem bare and unwelcoming.

And it wasn’t just Callaghan’s lack of preparedness this morning that made the job at the crime scene so tedious.

It’s all been about James, or, more specifically, the absence of James. 

James, who is no longer staying at Robbie’s flat, and who’s gone off in the company of Gurdip every evening since he moved out, and who therefore hasn’t been available for pints, for sharing meals, or for just generally being around and keeping Robbie company.

And it hasn’t been just temporary inappropriate attraction all those evenings when he wanted to keep touching James, and all the times he’s found himself thinking about it since.

It’s none of that. The last time he felt anything like this... attachment... to someone, this need caused by the absence of someone, was when Val was alive. That time when the kids were away and she went off to see her sister, he was like a lost soul.

Christ, he’s only somehow gone and tripped arse over tit for the bloke. For his own _sergeant_.

Bloody fucking hell, what’s he supposed to do now?

* * *

Thankfully, the next few days keep him busy enough that figuring out how to deal with his more than inconvenient feelings for his sergeant is the least of his worries. It isn’t just the current murder; Innocent’s short on senior staff due to unexpected sick leave on top of having one inspector on holiday and another on a training course, and Robbie’s been directed to supervise a second team as well as his own. 

The other team’s handling a complicated series of assaults that may have a hate-crime motive, and the team’s DS is relatively inexperienced and struggling a bit. Robbie has to delegate most of his own case to James — who is, of course, more than capable of handling it and doesn’t need Robbie looking over his shoulder — and spend most of his time with the other team.

Maxwell, the DS, has potential. She’s just been working for a DI who doesn’t follow through very well on his responsibility to train junior offices. Maxwell’s good at organising the routine stuff and at attention to detail. She just hasn’t had much opportunity to talk through strategy and theorising, so when Robbie asks her to take him through some areas where she thinks they might be making weak assumptions, she’s lost. 

So, for the rest of the week, he spends at most half an hour with his own team, most of it in a morning briefing where James takes the lead, and then a quick meeting with James to go over strategy. James texts or phones him if there are significant updates, but even then he leaves any actions to James. 

He isn’t even seeing James outside the nick; given the time Robbie’s spending on this other case, James is getting a PC to pick him up each morning, and Gurdip’s taking him either to the gym or swimming in the evenings. 

It’s not until there’s been a major breakthrough in the murder case and James has arrested, interviewed and is ready to charge their suspect that Robbie pulls himself away from the other team and comes to join James in the custody suite. The charge-sheet is ready and the suspect, handcuffed, is already out of the cells. And Robbie recognises him: he was one of the gawkers at the murder site at godawful o’clock that first morning. And he knows damn well that, if it had been James and not Callaghan at the scene that morning, this man could have been questioned days ago.

It’s only once their suspect is charged and James turns to head for the stairs that Robbie notices what he thinks he should have been aware of before now. James is limping — badly — and is clearly in pain. His step falters every so often, at a guess when a movement jars or sends a stab of pain through him. Robbie should have noticed sooner, and if he hadn’t been spending almost all his time with the other team, he would have. And would have done something about it.

Robbie waits until they’re upstairs and in their office — and it’s not easy watching James almost drag himself up the stairs — until he says anything. 

“James, what—”

“Before you say anything—” With an exhausted sigh, James drops carefully into his chair. “I know I’ve been overdoing things. I’ve already told Gurdip I’m going to give the swimming a miss tonight.”

Robbie nods. “Good.” James shifts a bit in his chair, then winces and reaches behind him to rub at his lower back. Bloody hell. He really has been pushing himself too hard. “Come back to mine tonight instead. Or I’ll drive you to yours an’ come in for a while. You need a hot shower and a proper massage.”

James’s head jerks up, his expression startled. “I don’t want to put you to any—”

“No.” Robbie perches on the edge of James’s desk. “Don’t be daft, man. You can’t carry on like this. Please, let me help you.” He waits until James is actually meeting his gaze. “Besides, you know what’ll happen if Laura sees you like this.”

Alarm covers James’s face, his eye wide. “I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, an’ bear in mind you won’t be the only one she comes after.” He reaches out and pats James’s shoulder. ”Come on. You’ve done good work the last few days. Think we can knock off an hour or so early — do Maxwell good to look after things by herself for a bit.”

James just nods, then pushes himself upwards and to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t talk daft. Now, pub first, or straight home?”

* * *

They end up at the Vicky Arms, but the heavens open just as Robbie pulls into the car park. Robbie pulls a face. “Beer garden’s out.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not smoking, remember.”

“True.” Robbie gets out of the car. “Wondered if you’d start again now your leg’s nearly good as new.”

His words feel ironic as he notices how awkwardly James is walking. But James doesn’t comment on that. “Gonna try to stay off them. It’s been almost two months, after all. I can’t remember when I last managed to stop smoking for that long. I’m _almost_ at the point of losing the craving. Not quite, but...” He shrugs faintly, reaching for the pub door. “It’s worth persevering. I just need to stop needing something to do with my hands at times when I’d normally smoke.”

“Oh, yeah?” Robbie spots an empty table in a corner and gestures James towards it. “Just don’t start cracking your knuckles or anything like that.”

James turns to face him full-on, a sarky grin on his face, and ostentatiously cracks the first two knuckles of his right hand. Robbie shakes his head. “Cut that out, or I’ll put you back on the spurious glamour. Now, get yourself over there an’ take the weight off your feet.”

It’s nice, this, Robbie muses as he stands at the bar waiting to be served. It’s the first time they’ve been for a pint together since James got the walking cast, and that’d been the first in ages too. He’s missed it, this companionable time over a drink at the end of a day’s work — at least on those days when they can knock off at a reasonable time, which is probably less than half of the time.

It wasn’t so bad while James was still staying with him, but of course over the past week he’s really felt the absence, as if one of the main supports of his daily life were missing. And it’s not just the drink, or the winding down. It’s all James.

Waiting for the pints to be poured, he glances back to where James is now sitting at their table, scrolling through something on his phone. Typical Hathaway; always has to be doing something to keep that massive brain of his occupied.

“That’ll be £5.76, mate.” Robbie drags himself out of his abstraction and turns to face the barman. As he hands over the cash, he notices the man give him an odd look. Christ, he’d just been staring at James, and he must’ve had some kind of dopey look on his face, mustn’t he?

Daft beggar, isn’t he? At his time of life, and over a bloke — and a bloke young enough to be his son, what’s more. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, this. Well, the sexual attraction, yes. But the rest? He’s loved James for years, hasn’t he? It’s just typical of his daft self that he never realised it before now. Laura would’ve — in fact, she more than likely has. Rushing off to Prague at a moment’s notice just because James was in an accident? You don’t do that for someone you’re just fond of, do you?

As Robbie puts their drinks on the table and takes the bench opposite, James smiles up at him, a rare, unguarded smile that does nothing for Robbie’s confidence in his ability to hide his feelings for the lad indefinitely. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Robbie taps his glass against James’s.

After a sip, James says, “I’ve been meaning to say, sir — much as I miss your cheery self around the office, I’m glad that Maxwell’s getting the benefit of working under you.”

“Told you, Robbie out of the office.” He takes a long gulp. Feels as if he’s not had a decent drink in weeks. “Maxwell? She’s got potential. Just needs a bit of steering in the right direction sometimes.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Her governor’s Kent.” James doesn’t elaborate, but then again he doesn’t need to. “Call me naive, but I wonder why Innocent doesn’t do anything. Surely she’s interested in making sure promoted officers get proper training.”

“Already planning to have a word. I think she does know, but short of lookin’ over Kent’s shoulder...” He shrugs. “Anyway, didn’t look like you missed me. Did a bloody good job without me, didn’t you? Nice collar, an’ even better work with the interviewing. Innocent said so, too.”

James dips his head. “I did learn from the best. Still, I’ll be happier when you’re back and I’m cleared for full duties.”

Robbie nods. “You won’t be for a bit, not the way you were walking this afternoon, man. How long’s the pain been this bad?”

James shrugs, looking uncomfortable with the question. “A day? Maybe two. It’s fine, Robbie. Rowing training was worse.”

“You weren’t recovering from a broken bone when you were in training for rowing,” Robbie points out. “Come on. Get that down you an’ we’ll head back to mine. Takeaway, an’ then I’ll sort you out.” The cream he’d used before is still in the spare bedroom, after all.

James drains his glass. “This time, I’m not stupid enough to say no.”

* * *

Dinner’s a takeaway meze from a Lebanese restaurant they both enjoy, though James chides Robbie about eating healthier. He will, Robbie promise, if James will teach him some simple recipes that don’t take an hour or more to cook. Glutton for punishment, he is. The more time he spends with James outside work, and outside a safe, public environment like a pub, the greater the danger of letting something slip. And then what? James couldn’t be anything other than embarrassed, and things would never be the same between them, in work as well as out.

Well, the answer’s simple, then, isn’t it? Let nothing slip. He’s got more than thirty years’ experience of hiding his thoughts and reactions from others, hasn’t he? Basic skill of being a detective, after all.

James starts clearing dishes away, but his stiff movements make it immediately obvious that he’s still in pain. Robbie takes the plates from him. “Go on, get yourself sorted and onto the bed. I’ll be down in a minute.”

There’s no argument, only a grateful nod, and James heads off to the spare bedroom. 

Robbie detours via the bathroom first, to wash his hands but, more important, to splash cold water on his face and wrists. Anything to reduce the risk of giving himself away.

In the bedroom, James is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his shirt and underwear, with his suit on a hanger. The awkward, uncertain expression on his face tears at Robbie; what has he done to put that there? 

“You all right?” he asks, pausing just inside the door. “Thought you’d be ready by now.”

“I wasn’t sure...” James gives him just a hint of a wry smile. “The last couple of times you helped me, I got the feeling you were... uncomfortable... with this. I wondered if I should—” He tugs at his shirt. “—cover up a bit more.”

Bugger. He’d been so focused on trying not to let James see what was really on his mind, and now the bloke’s gone and assumed something else entirely, that Robbie’s some kind of throwback who’s repulsed at the sight of another bloke’s naked body. “No. Nothing like that. It’s fine. Go on.” He gestures towards the bed. “Tell me where it hurts.”

James stands facing Robbie and, in a fluid movement, pulls his shirt over his head. And it’s just as well that, for a split second, the lad’s face is hidden in the cotton of the garment, because the muscled, athletic body that’s revealed makes Robbie catch his breath. James’s skin, at least above his waist, is smooth and pale, with a sheen like alabaster. He really does belong in the Ashmolean, except that his skin’s warm and the pulse beating just below the surface is a reminder that he’s very much alive.

“Okay, on the bed with you.” Robbie’s voice is gruff, and he can’t help it.

Obediently, James lowers himself down, initially with some awkwardness because of his aching leg and hip, and arranges himself face-downwards, head resting on folded arms. Like last time, he’s wearing skin-tight black underwear that hides nothing of the curve of his backside, or the bulge visible between his legs.

Robbie swallows and takes a couple of deep breaths. “Where does it hurt?” he prompts again. “Back of your thigh, calf, lower back?”

“Everywhere,” James mutters, his tone suggesting that he’d like to consign the reason for the pain to the dampest, most unpleasant-smelling holding cell to be found in the old Cowley nick.

Carefully, to avoid jolting James, Robbie sits on the side of the bed, then coats his fingers in cream. And then he hesitates. Before, getting started was easy. This was James, his sergeant, his friend, who was in pain and in need of relief, and all Robbie wanted was to help him. Now, he still wants that, but on top of that need is the awareness that James isn’t just his sergeant and friend. That he _wants_ to touch the man, and not to ease his pain. That he loves James, and wants James to love him in return.

And _none_ of that matters. It’s not why Robbie invited James here, and it’s not why James is entrusting himself to Robbie like this. The only reason James is here is that he’s in pain and Robbie has the means to ease his aching muscles, at least a little. Even if he’d like it to be more than that, it isn’t.

He flexes his fingers again, and gets started.

It’s easy then. He can feel the tight muscles under his fingertips, the areas where knots have formed and where James has overdone or overcompensated his efforts to make his body behave the way he wants it to. It’s easy to focus on working the tightness out and feeling James relax beneath his hands.

So he keeps going, past the point where James isn’t tense any more and where he’s resting his head on the pillow now, eyes closed. Relaxing, maybe close to sleep, and given the dark smudges around his eyes over the last couple of days, Robbie’s pretty certain that James hasn’t been sleeping well lately. If he falls asleep here, it’ll be a bloody good thing.

Robbie rubs his hands over James’s lower back once more, then over the rounded curve of his backside and then along both sides of his thigh, fingers and thumbs gentling as he moves. And James makes a sound. Not a protest, not a yawn, but something close to a moan.

 _Fuck_. He’s not massaging any more. He’s _stroking_.

* * *

Robbie jerks his hands away. And, instantly, James protests, his voice sleepy and almost petulant, “Don’t stop.”

And Robbie’s still trying to make sense of that when James sits up, the movement abrupt and sheepish. “Sorry. Sorry. I — I must’ve thought—” He ducks his head, avoiding Robbie’s gaze, and his hands are pressed together, covering his underwear. “I apologise, sir.” Now his voice is stiff, full of embarrassment, matching the pink flush around the back of his neck. “That was extremely inappropriate. If you’ll give me a minute to get dressed, I’ll leave.”

Robbie’s not got a clue what’s happening here. But there’s one thing he does know. “You’re not going anywhere, man.” On pure instinct, wanting to reassure, he lays a hand on James’s shoulder, pressing firmly.

James trembles faintly under his touch.

What the—? Has James figured it out, or known all along? But that doesn’t explain...

And then it all makes sense. What’s happened just now, together with what happened at the pool and James’s reluctance to be alone with him since then. What James is hiding with his hands.

He strokes his hand backwards and forwards over James’s shoulder and upper arm. A very faint sigh comes from the man next to him.

Encouraged, testing, Robbie slides his hand around the back of James’s neck. James leans very slightly closer to him. 

He moves his hand upwards, cupping the back of James’s head, fingers sliding through his hair. James drops his head onto Robbie’s shoulder.

Ah. And the tight grip Robbie’s been holding on himself ever since that last evening in this very room eases and slips away. He inclines his own head sideways until it’s resting against James’s. With his free hand, he reaches across and grips James’s clenched fist, smoothing out the long fingers and wrapping his around them. Taking hold of James, his canny lad. 

And that says it all for both of them, feels like.

* * *

“I don’t expect anything.” James’s voice shatters the silence that’s lain between them for the past... feels like at least ten minutes.

Robbie shifts, raising his head and turning to look at this lovely lad who might, just maybe, turn out to be for him. He keeps his grasp on James’s head, though. “What d’you mean?”

James’s fingers clench in Robbie’s grip. “I know what you’ve figured out. I didn’t make it very difficult for you, did I? But if you’re willing to keep me — as your sergeant, I mean — I promise it’ll never get in the way. It’ll be as if this never happened.”

Robbie huffs, a long-suffering sigh he knows James is very familiar with. “You daft sod. Does this feel as if I want you to forget it?” He leans in closer and presses a kiss to the crown of James’s head. “Some detective you are, if that’s what you think. You never noticed you weren’t the only one?”

Blue eyes wide open in shock stare at him, until after a moment or two James shakes his head in rueful denial. “I was too busy trying to hide my reaction to everything you did. It never occurred to me to look for any signs from you.”

“Daft sod.” But then Robbie relents, smiling crookedly. “Not as if I realised what you wanted, either. Not till just now.”

“And you’re sure...?” James’s gaze sweeps Robbie’s face, searching for any hint of doubt.

“Wouldn’t say so if I wasn’t.”

James’s expression alters abruptly, as if he’s just let go of every guard he’s ever put up against the world around him. And it’s all there: longing, need, desire, yes; but more besides. Robbie’s not the only one who wants this to be more than a casual shag, an affair conducted behind closed doors that’ll burn itself out in weeks, if not sooner.

Which means it’ll have to be handled very carefully, for James’s sake.

James slowly raises his hand to Robbie’s face, then traces with his fingertip around eyes, nose, lips, chin, and then back to drag his finger over, and between, Robbie’s lips. He leans closer. “I want to kiss you.”

Robbie moves back, halting James’s movement. “Wait.”

“What? I thought you wanted...?”

Robbie squeezes James’s hand, offering more reassurance in the face of the lad’s confusion. “I do. It’s just not as simple as that.”

James calms, his expression trusting, which makes Robbie hope he’ll never do anything to lose that faith in him.

He’s barely had time to think this through — it’s not as if he ever imagined that James would remotely feel the same way he does. But there’s only one clear solution. “I’m telling Innocent tomorrow I’m putting you forward for OSPRE.”

It’s not as if he doesn’t know that this is a point of contention for James. “What? What’s that got to do with anything?”

He holds tight to the lad’s hand. “I’m your boss, man! We can’t do anything like this while you still report to me. It wouldn’t be right. It’s not fair to you.”

There are sparks of anger in James’s eyes, though he doesn’t attempt to free his hand. “If you mean anything along the lines of abuse of power, that’s ridiculous. I know you’d never take advantage of this in our working relationship, and you should know yourself better than that.”

“I know I wouldn’t. Know you wouldn’t either, come to that. But that’s not the point.” His thumb strokes across the back of James’s hand. 

After a couple of moments, James nods reluctantly. “It’s how it looks, isn’t it? Especially if Innocent finds out. She’ll be the one asking me if you’ve done anything that might constitute harassment or taking advantage.”

Robbie nods. “I’m not worried for meself, though, man. I mean, if it came to it, I’d just retire. It’s you — your career. You know this’d cause problems in the team if anyone found out. Some of the lads in the team already think you get special treatment, which is bollocks, but if anyone suspects about this all hell will break loose.”

James has been on the receiving end of too many barely-disguised insults and accusations of favouritism as it is. Robbie won’t risk inviting any more of it.

“You’d bend over backwards to make sure you weren’t being seen to treat me more favourably,” James points out, and it’s true.

“Maybe. Still, it’s got the potential to be a problem, and you know it. Not to mention it’d be bloody difficult for you to be me subordinate at work and then me...” He hesitates, then decides on what seems to fit best. “Me partner at home. Best if you’re not reporting to me, an’ you’re good enough not to have to switch to being someone else’s bagman. You really want to have to report to someone like Kent?” James shakes his head in instant denial, and Robbie takes advantage of that in order to push his point. “You should be on the promotion track, even if someone other than me has to supervise you through it.”

“Maybe.” James’s thumb is now stroking the side of Robbie’s hand. “It’s a bit premature, though, isn’t it? What if this doesn’t last? I mean, you could decide the last thing you want is a relationship with a cleverclogs smartarse who doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Or a relationship with a bloke. Or a relationship with _James_. Because that’s at the root of this objection. James is genuinely worried that Robbie’ll get tired of him, and of the novelty of a relationship that’s unlike anything he’s ever had before.

And maybe, if this had happened before James had the accident and broke his leg, Robbie might have wondered the same thing. But a lot has happened since then. They’ve got to know each other — and themselves — better as a result. They’ve spent more time together than ever before. Robbie’s come to realise how much having James in his life _matters_. How much James has filled an aching void that’s been there ever since he lost Val.

Not filled it completely — no-one could ever do that — but he’s found his own space in Robbie’s life and Robbie’s heart. He belongs there, and Robbie just hopes that he belongs with James every bit as much.

Some day, perhaps, he’ll tell James that. For now, reassuring his bonny lad’s easy. “If that was gonna happen, would’ve been years ago.” He bumps his shoulder against James’s. “Look, who knows if it’ll work out. I think it will — but anyway, even if it didn’t, could you go back to calling me sir and obeying orders from me, including stuff you don’t want to do?”

James snorts. “Didn’t I once say something about suffering and endurance? They’re merely a sergeant’s lot.”

Robbie raises an eyebrow. “The bedrock of a happy marriage, you said.” And it strikes him that, yes, even then, three years ago, they were doing a pretty good imitation of being closer than many spouses. Laura’d commented on it many times. Robbie’d just never understood exactly what she’d been getting at. 

Had James? Probably, he suspects now.

“Anyway, we need to do something.” He resumes his gentle stroking of James’s hair. “Innocent’ll be a lot more understanding if we’re straight with her up front rather than risking her finding out herself. And it’s not as if we’d never see each other — or as if you wouldn’t enjoy bein’ the boss of your own team.”

James nods slowly. That’s progress.

“There’s Maxwell, for example. Needs a good DI to train her up an’ give her confidence. You’d be good at that.”

“So would you, if I weren’t your DS any more,” James points out, but Robbie can already see the wheels turning in his mind. 

“We’re agreed? Tell Innocent an’ you get ready to sit OSPRE?” 

“Yes, all right, then!” The words are impatient, and Robbie quickly finds out why. “Can I kiss you _now_?”

All the matter-of-factness of a moment ago has gone from James’s voice, his expression, and Robbie finds himself responding to the impatient need he sees. “Think you’d better.”

“Waited long enough,” James mutters before leaning in, cupping Robbie around the back of his neck, and claiming a kiss that makes clear that, while James might be Robbie’s subordinate at work, he’s very much not so when it comes to their personal relationship.

Not that Robbie intends to let the lad have it all his own way. He yanks James closer, taking full advantage of their clothing discrepancy by running his hands up and down James’s naked back. “Not fair,” James grumbles, tearing his lips a bare inch away from Robbie’s. “You’ve got more clothes on than I have.”

“Not stoppin’ you doing anything about that,” Robbie points out before making clear that he’s not finished kissing the bloke yet. Or doing other things. Plenty of other things. 

Just as well they’re already on a bed, in fact.

* * *

Someone’s nuzzling Robbie’s ear, and a warm hand is stroking over his belly, sliding further downwards with every brush. 

Robbie reaches down and traps the hand in his. “Might check I’m awake before makin’ free with me body.”

A low chuckle reverberates against his ear. “Oh, you’re awake. I have incontrovertible evidence of that right here.”

Robbie rolls over, trapping James beneath him. “Not the only one, I see.”

“Mmm.” James wraps his arms around Robbie’s back, then for good measure brings his lower legs up to seal Robbie’s thighs in place. 

“Take it your gammy leg’s better this morning?” 

“Much.” James sucks gently just below Robbie’s chin. “You’re much more skilled than Gurdip at making me feel better.”

Robbie snorts. “So I should hope.”

“Oh, _yeah_.” It’s almost a purr. “In fact, I think I should move back in for a while, just so you’re nearby in case I need more care and attention.”

Robbie runs his fingers lightly down James’s side, smirking at the way James squirms away in response. The lad’s ticklish, is he? That could be very useful information. “Seem to remember I wasn’t the one who wanted you to move out.”

“True,” James agrees. 

Robbie cants his hips, enjoying the reaction that gets from James as well. “Reckon I could find space for your crutches again, all right.”

James leans up and starts to kiss Robbie deeply, and his hands repeat some of the more interesting things he’d done to Robbie last night. They’ll have to stop soon, of course; the alarm’s going to go off and work beckons, as well as an unplanned, but definitely necessary, meeting with Innocent. But they’ve got five minutes, and Robbie’s not going to waste it — not one second of it.

And, yes, for the second time in about as many months he’s contemplating the loss of his sergeant, and this time permanently. But, unlike the previous time, he’s not at all unhappy at the prospect. Far from it.

Just as long as he doesn’t end up with Blake again...

* * *


End file.
